To let go isn't to forget, not to think about, or ignore. It doesn't leave feelings of anger, jealously, or regret. Letting go isn't winning, and it isn't losing. It's not about pride, and it's not about how you appear, and it's not obsessing or dwelling on the past.
Letting go isn't blocking memories or thinking sad thoughts, and doesn't leave emptiness, hurt, or sadness. It's not giving in or giving up. Letting go isn't about loss and it's not defeat.
To let go is to cherish memories, and overcome and move on. It's having an open mind and confidence in the future. Letting go is accepting. It's learning and experiencing and growing. To let go is to be thankful for experiences that made you laugh, made you cry, and made you grow.
It's about all that you have, all that you had, and all that you will soon again. Letting go is having the courage to accept change, and the strength to keep moving. Letting go is growing up. It's realizing that the heart can sometimes be the most potent remedy.
To let go is to open a door, and to clear a path, and to set you free.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
It's been three years
Three years ago, I said goodbye.
Three years ago, I lost my best friend, my love, my heart, my husband.
Three years ago, I said "I love you, Brian" for the last time.
Three years later, the burden of grief has been lifted. There are still days when I am incredibly, indescribably, sad.
But as the song goes, I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. It's not all rainbows and unicorns...I don't think it'll ever be that way for me again, because first love is blinding.
I have more sunny days, and sometimes I catch glimpses of what my life used to be when I'm off guard, or like now, when it's 4:30 AM and I've been awake for the last two hours.
I can smile at once was. I don't, for one second, regret the very short time I had with Brian. Perhaps it wasn't long enough, but it was enough.
Enough to teach me patience.
Enough to teach me kindness like I've never known before.
Enough to show me what humility, and courage, and strength looks like.
Enough to show me what love does and is and can be.
If I take away anything at all from the last three years, it will be that I loved him with everything that was in me. And I will be forever grateful for having the chance to love and be loved.
Because Brian WAS love.
Monday, September 30, 2013
legacy
I recently read a book (and then watched the movie) called "Cloud Atlas" by David Mitchell.
I count it as one of my top ten reads of all time.
It's not an easy read, either in content (lots of death and savagery), or in lightness (it's complex, you can't afford not to be 100% focused on the story or you will miss something important).
But this book spoke to me like no other book has done since Brian died.
The themes of death and rebirth, life after life, connectedness between all souls both rich and poor, is something that resonates with me on a deeper level.
A character in the book, Sonmi-451 makes the connection between how our acts today form our future and the futures of those whose lives we are part of.
And I like to think that Brian's calm nature, his kindness and compassion, even when met with people who were ...ummm...exceedingly annoying (my view)...has in many ways, birthed the future.
Not his, but mine.
And I realise what it is about this idea that I like so much...the realisation that THIS is Brian's legacy...
Kindness
I think that's a pretty good legacy to have left.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Old people. I'm old too.
I am jealous of old people.
Every single old person that I see walking down the street. I am jealous of them.
The bitter ones.
The wrinkled up, exhausted by life ones.
The healthy ones.
The sick ones.
The ones who have made it into their late 80's or even early 90's, and who are still walking side by side with their partners.
The husband who grabs his wife's fragile hand, pulling her up that last small step, into their favorite diner.
The wife who rubs soothing lotion or cream into her husband's back and neck, in places where he can no longer reach on his own.
I am so jealous of them, I cannot see straight. Jealous that they exist. Confused as to why they get the honor of living so many years, and my husband doesn't. Angry that they know what it's like to spend decades upon decades with the same person by their side. Decades. It's the most beautiful word in the atmosphere, because we never made it to decades. Not even one decade. Not even half of a decade. We never even made it to 2 years.
It bothers me. It bothers me more than it should, perhaps. It bothers me that so many numbers move forward each year.
The dates move forward: 2011, 2012, 2013 ...
My age moves forward: 33, 34, 35...
Time moves forward. Time always moves forward. But when it does, the number of years that my husband and I were married will always remain the same. One year and 6 weeks. Never more. Never.
That hurts.
My marriage made me less afraid. Less afraid of life. Less afraid of growing old. Getting sick. Watching other people grow old or get sick. My marriage made me want the honor of being old together. Living life together. Facing pain and laughter and horrors and adventures and many ordinary, nothing special days - together.
My husband used to do an impression of himself as an old guy. It was hilarious, and frighteningly accurate as to how he probably would have been. "I can't wait to be old!" He would joke with me. "It's gonna be awesome! I get to do whatever the hell I want, and everyone just writes me off as the old, senile guy. I can kick kids off my property and yell at people and drive all over the place, not looking out for anything or anyone. I can say inappropriate things and sit in my own filth and nobody will think twice about it. How great is that?"
He moved from Florida to New Jersey when he was a kid, so I always used to tell him that one day, we would move back to Florida together. When we are old and ready to croak - just like everybody else. We always laughed about what we would be like as an old couple, going to the Golden Corral for the $9.99 buffet at 4pm. Helping each other up those stairs. Home by 7 to watch Jeopardy.
It's not fair. I don't know how to grow old alone. I don't wanna do it alone. I need my teammate, my other half, so that I can be less afraid again. How am I supposed to do this without someone there to hold up my fragile bones? I know I shouldn't think about this stuff. I know. I should stay in the present. Live for today. But it's my nature. I'm a worrier. I can't help it. I lay awake at night, thinking about being old. Thinking about having to one day face the death of my parents - without my husband by my side. How the hell am I supposed to do that??? HOW??? The very thought of it gives me chills, and makes my skin sweat. Facing things that are scary, without him. Forever.
That hurts.
Time moves forward. Life moves forward. But our marriage stays stuck at just over a year, and he will never be an old man. I will have to be an old woman, and he will never be an old man.
What would he have looked like? How would he have acted? I will never know those things. But I do know this .......
I turned 35 yesterday...he will still be 32. When I am 50, he will be 32. When I am 70, 80, 90, gone ...
He will be 32. He will always be 32.
Forever.
And time will keep pushing on .
Every single old person that I see walking down the street. I am jealous of them.
The bitter ones.
The wrinkled up, exhausted by life ones.
The healthy ones.
The sick ones.
The ones who have made it into their late 80's or even early 90's, and who are still walking side by side with their partners.
The husband who grabs his wife's fragile hand, pulling her up that last small step, into their favorite diner.
The wife who rubs soothing lotion or cream into her husband's back and neck, in places where he can no longer reach on his own.
I am so jealous of them, I cannot see straight. Jealous that they exist. Confused as to why they get the honor of living so many years, and my husband doesn't. Angry that they know what it's like to spend decades upon decades with the same person by their side. Decades. It's the most beautiful word in the atmosphere, because we never made it to decades. Not even one decade. Not even half of a decade. We never even made it to 2 years.
It bothers me. It bothers me more than it should, perhaps. It bothers me that so many numbers move forward each year.
The dates move forward: 2011, 2012, 2013 ...
My age moves forward: 33, 34, 35...
Time moves forward. Time always moves forward. But when it does, the number of years that my husband and I were married will always remain the same. One year and 6 weeks. Never more. Never.
That hurts.
My marriage made me less afraid. Less afraid of life. Less afraid of growing old. Getting sick. Watching other people grow old or get sick. My marriage made me want the honor of being old together. Living life together. Facing pain and laughter and horrors and adventures and many ordinary, nothing special days - together.
My husband used to do an impression of himself as an old guy. It was hilarious, and frighteningly accurate as to how he probably would have been. "I can't wait to be old!" He would joke with me. "It's gonna be awesome! I get to do whatever the hell I want, and everyone just writes me off as the old, senile guy. I can kick kids off my property and yell at people and drive all over the place, not looking out for anything or anyone. I can say inappropriate things and sit in my own filth and nobody will think twice about it. How great is that?"
He moved from Florida to New Jersey when he was a kid, so I always used to tell him that one day, we would move back to Florida together. When we are old and ready to croak - just like everybody else. We always laughed about what we would be like as an old couple, going to the Golden Corral for the $9.99 buffet at 4pm. Helping each other up those stairs. Home by 7 to watch Jeopardy.
It's not fair. I don't know how to grow old alone. I don't wanna do it alone. I need my teammate, my other half, so that I can be less afraid again. How am I supposed to do this without someone there to hold up my fragile bones? I know I shouldn't think about this stuff. I know. I should stay in the present. Live for today. But it's my nature. I'm a worrier. I can't help it. I lay awake at night, thinking about being old. Thinking about having to one day face the death of my parents - without my husband by my side. How the hell am I supposed to do that??? HOW??? The very thought of it gives me chills, and makes my skin sweat. Facing things that are scary, without him. Forever.
That hurts.
Time moves forward. Life moves forward. But our marriage stays stuck at just over a year, and he will never be an old man. I will have to be an old woman, and he will never be an old man.
What would he have looked like? How would he have acted? I will never know those things. But I do know this .......
I turned 35 yesterday...he will still be 32. When I am 50, he will be 32. When I am 70, 80, 90, gone ...
He will be 32. He will always be 32.
Forever.
And time will keep pushing on .
Sunday, April 21, 2013
I never thought I'd get here
Is it OK to say this? I think I'm done grieving the loss of my husband.
Oh boy. I'm not sure about this. Just writing the words makes me feel uneasy.
It's been almost three years since Brian died. In these almost three years I have dwelt upon his death, worked hard to understand its effect on me, written extensively about Brian, cancer, death and widowhood, renewed my self and spirit through friendship, felt sorry for myself, experienced deep pain, sadness and loneliness, and adapted to life as a single woman. I used dating as a strategy to push away the pain of losing my husband only to find that in being rudely dumped by one guy I finally got it: my wonderful husband was actually gone and never coming back; there would be no repeat of the incredible piece of good fortune that was our meeting and our marriage. (It took almost three years to REALLY get that my terrific marriage was over, Brian was gone, and my life had to essentially restart in foreign territory.)
I once read that it takes a "significant life event" to make profound change occur once you've reached adulthood. Well, Brian's death was that event and I am now changed forever. I feel like a different person, a better person, a more content person, a more sober person. The contentment comes, ironically, from truly understanding that one day I will die and this wonderful life and all it holds will be gone. And so, I cherish it more and worry a whole lot less. I am not the same Kimberly I was before. I have lost a great deal. And yet, I think that I am through grieving. For now, that is. Because my "significant life event" has taught me that there is life on the one hand and loss on the other. Those hands are clasped together. You can't live without loss, you can only decide how to live well despite it.
Yet, I feel bad thinking that I'm done with grief, like I'm not supposed to ever be done. It's a fix I'm in. If I was still mourning Brian's loss and living in the middle of grief 20 years after his death certainly I would be stuck...I wouldn't have successfully managed to accept his death and to go on with my own life. But to believe that I have reached a place where I am no longer grieving? What does that mean?
Here's what it means to me:
I have accepted Brian's death and made a decision to live as well and as joyfully as I can anyway.
I can now think about Brian with primary emotions other than just despair or sadness or hopelessness or guilt or regret. Mingled in there now in equal measure are happiness, contentment, gratitude, joy, peace, and strength.
It will always be painful that Brian died. There will continue to be many moments that make me cry for the infinite absence, the hole, the lost future, the what-could-have-beens.
When someone dies, a common refrain the widow hears goes as follows: "Your memories will sustain you" or "He'll live on in your thoughts." I once wrote soon after Brian died that the thought of living on memories is like driving on fumes. But today, almost three years later, I'm starting to understand what it means to be sustained by memory. I will turn 35 years old this year. There is so much precious material to be mined in those almost three years now gone. I can see that now.
Once again, I can see a future that excites me instead of one that feels hostile, unknown and foreign. When Brian was sick and I feared he would die and leave me alone, I was filled with fear and dread so severe I couldn't live with it without turning to medication. After he died, my world felt as though it had crumbled. I actually had a dream in which the floor of my kitchen developed an enormous crater in the middle of it...my foundation was disintegrating.
I have rebuilt in these almost three years a completely different structure that may have more doors and windows. I feel more open to possibility, more willing to embrace change, more able to be just who I am without apologizing for myself, more inclined to see what's out in the world, even if it's unexpected. Loss has informed me: there is no one way to safety. There isn't safety. There's just experience, good, bad, neutral. When you live, when you're not dead, what you get is to experience. I compare myself to Brian who can't experience anything anymore: not love, not loss, not pain, not pleasure. I'd rather be alive to take it all on.
Yes, I think I'm done grieving for now. I never thought I'd get here. It was the hardest work I've ever done, but I'm glad I did it. I gave it my all.
Oh boy. I'm not sure about this. Just writing the words makes me feel uneasy.
It's been almost three years since Brian died. In these almost three years I have dwelt upon his death, worked hard to understand its effect on me, written extensively about Brian, cancer, death and widowhood, renewed my self and spirit through friendship, felt sorry for myself, experienced deep pain, sadness and loneliness, and adapted to life as a single woman. I used dating as a strategy to push away the pain of losing my husband only to find that in being rudely dumped by one guy I finally got it: my wonderful husband was actually gone and never coming back; there would be no repeat of the incredible piece of good fortune that was our meeting and our marriage. (It took almost three years to REALLY get that my terrific marriage was over, Brian was gone, and my life had to essentially restart in foreign territory.)
I once read that it takes a "significant life event" to make profound change occur once you've reached adulthood. Well, Brian's death was that event and I am now changed forever. I feel like a different person, a better person, a more content person, a more sober person. The contentment comes, ironically, from truly understanding that one day I will die and this wonderful life and all it holds will be gone. And so, I cherish it more and worry a whole lot less. I am not the same Kimberly I was before. I have lost a great deal. And yet, I think that I am through grieving. For now, that is. Because my "significant life event" has taught me that there is life on the one hand and loss on the other. Those hands are clasped together. You can't live without loss, you can only decide how to live well despite it.
Yet, I feel bad thinking that I'm done with grief, like I'm not supposed to ever be done. It's a fix I'm in. If I was still mourning Brian's loss and living in the middle of grief 20 years after his death certainly I would be stuck...I wouldn't have successfully managed to accept his death and to go on with my own life. But to believe that I have reached a place where I am no longer grieving? What does that mean?
Here's what it means to me:
I have accepted Brian's death and made a decision to live as well and as joyfully as I can anyway.
I can now think about Brian with primary emotions other than just despair or sadness or hopelessness or guilt or regret. Mingled in there now in equal measure are happiness, contentment, gratitude, joy, peace, and strength.
It will always be painful that Brian died. There will continue to be many moments that make me cry for the infinite absence, the hole, the lost future, the what-could-have-beens.
When someone dies, a common refrain the widow hears goes as follows: "Your memories will sustain you" or "He'll live on in your thoughts." I once wrote soon after Brian died that the thought of living on memories is like driving on fumes. But today, almost three years later, I'm starting to understand what it means to be sustained by memory. I will turn 35 years old this year. There is so much precious material to be mined in those almost three years now gone. I can see that now.
Once again, I can see a future that excites me instead of one that feels hostile, unknown and foreign. When Brian was sick and I feared he would die and leave me alone, I was filled with fear and dread so severe I couldn't live with it without turning to medication. After he died, my world felt as though it had crumbled. I actually had a dream in which the floor of my kitchen developed an enormous crater in the middle of it...my foundation was disintegrating.
I have rebuilt in these almost three years a completely different structure that may have more doors and windows. I feel more open to possibility, more willing to embrace change, more able to be just who I am without apologizing for myself, more inclined to see what's out in the world, even if it's unexpected. Loss has informed me: there is no one way to safety. There isn't safety. There's just experience, good, bad, neutral. When you live, when you're not dead, what you get is to experience. I compare myself to Brian who can't experience anything anymore: not love, not loss, not pain, not pleasure. I'd rather be alive to take it all on.
Yes, I think I'm done grieving for now. I never thought I'd get here. It was the hardest work I've ever done, but I'm glad I did it. I gave it my all.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Two years and...
A most extraordinary thing has happened. I met someone.
He makes me want to smile. He makes me want to laugh. He makes me want to be happy. He makes me smile. He makes me laugh. He makes me happy.
I thought I found this a little while ago, but I was wrong. That guy taught me that it is ok to love again and it really is ok to move forward...but he wasn't the guy who makes me want to be me.
I've learned these last few months that I can miss Brian. I can love Brian. I can also miss and love him now from a distance.
That is my two year milestone. I am really, truly, honestly, remarkably ok because I have Brian in my heart forever, even in a new relationship.
And even if this new relationship isn't quite official yet, I know I am going to be just fine.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
The goal
If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I’m a huge fan of finding quotes that help get me through the day (or hour…or minute). It always helps to have a little motivation or inspiration during my weakest moments. Not surprisingly, one of my favorite quotes was shared with me through a friend, and it seems to sum up everything I’m feeling. She said, “It’s not moving on. It's carrying on."
With this in mind, I’ve done my best to carry on and live my life in a way that would make Brian proud. It's devastating, frustrating and agonizing when I stop to think about how we were planning a life and a future for the two of us. We were building a life together. Instead, I find myself forced to make major life decisions on my own, which often leaves me angry and confused. Yet, I’m doing my best to see through the haze and rediscover what it means to be happy.
I’m hesitant to say I’m starting over. It seems to me that this is more like a new chapter in the ongoing story of my life, in which Brian will always be a major character. As part of this new chapter, I’m encouraging myself to get out of the house and explore. I want to meet more people and try new things. It’s far too easy for me to sit at home and stew in my thoughts. Don’t get me wrong…I have bad days and it’s not always easy to dive right in and meet new people. In fact, just the other day I found myself sitting on the couch with a pile of used tissues the size of Mt. Everest piling up next to me. The tears just kept coming.
However, I’m trying my best to not let these moments define me and my life. I accept them when they come, but I always try to remember the things I want to do in the years ahead and the adventures Brian wants me to have. For example, Brian promised me we’d go skydiving together, but he told me I wasn’t allowed to chicken out. We never got the chance to follow through with our deal, but after he died, I made a promise to myself and to Brian that I’d still jump out of a plane. It will be a nice reminder that buried under the sadness and hurt is the ability to still feel an overwhelming sense of joy.
I hope to have many exciting adventures in the days, months, and years ahead. Maybe one day I’ll find love again and have someone to share experiences with. I know without question that Brian wants that for me. Yet, I also know, from recent experiences in the dating/relationship pool, that I’ll never “move on”.
To me, there is no such thing. Brian will forever have a piece of my heart and will be with me everywhere I go. I wouldn’t have it any other way. My goal right now is to keep carrying on in pursuit of brighter days.
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