No More Blindfolds

Ten years ago I was prepping to walk down the aisle to the man I’ve been laughing with since I was a little girl.

Life happened.

Life, death, whichever way you want to look at it.

Matt and I were very similar and incredibly different. In our home we were a great team. We seemed to have figured it out. It seemed that way, anyway. We knew each other well and maybe not at all.

In my last post I described what I would do if he showed up again. I wrote about how I would just lay with him and breathe again. That’s it. That’s all I’d have to say or do if my husband showed up.

Breathe.

Breathe together.

But today—today if asked the same question it would be different.

Today I would say something along the lines of:

Hey, welcome back. The dishes need washed. The clothes need folded. The bathtubs need scrubbed. The walls need a fresh coat of paint, the kids need your love, and I’m leaving for a bit. You’ve exhausted me. I’m exhausted. I’m out. Enjoy.

And I would hope this little fairy tale would last at least 8hrs. And then I would come back with the kids no longer grieving and the house put together, as if two adults lived in our home, and THEN I would lay down in bed and breathe again. I don’t know if he’d be with me. He would probably already be gone. And that would be fine, because all would be calm.

But those rollercoasters of grief and the places my imagination takes me do not matter at all. None of that will happen. He won’t be coming back. He’s not coming back, whether I want to lay with him and breathe or walk out on him. He’s already gone. And it’s been a couple years now. And fuck. Fuck, man. It’s been a couple years.

Two years ago was the last time my husband and I laughed together. It was our 8 year anniversary. It was raining. Our plans of grilling out changed to something else. I can’t remember what we ate.

Therapy. Nightmares. Tears on every single goddamn holiday and birthday. New sports. New interests, new adventures. And still tears with every single accomplishment. And it pisses me off. It infuriates me that this is how we are now. Every success. Every mistake. Every milestone. There’s always an ache. Forever an ache. For me. For my kids. For our family. Even as we grow.

Two years ago was the last time we put our kids to sleep with our family as we knew it. It was the last time our kids ever saw their father. He left late that night, early the next morning, while we were all still sleeping. We talked on the phone. And then four days later there was an accident. He was declared dead the next morning.

Our wedding anniversary, when we purposely put the boys to bed even earlier than usual, was the last time we were ever all together, breathing and laughing together.

And my daydreams won’t change that. And my new traditions won’t change that. It may ease it. It may lessen the intensity of the smacks in the face, but it doesn’t take them away. It doesn’t take them away, because they’re inevitable.

And yeah, we get up. We get up because we have to—not because we want to. We, widowed people or grieving people, are looked at as “so strong” because we’re living a life so many can’t imagine.

Often times I just want to say:

Fuck it all.

Fuck you.

Fuck that.

Ten years ago I was blind to what would lie ahead. I was blind to who I would become. I was blind to what would become of us. And now the blindfolds are ripped off. Completely gone within one moment. That was the past and now we are here. Instantly. No choice.

One year ago I created my Support and Empowerment group for widowed women through Facebook. We’re a small group of women who support each other stronger than any other group I’ve ever been in. This group is what keeps me going on days like today. The day that I always thought my husband and I would do something fun, something extra, something beautiful—just the two of us. Something to celebrate a decade of marriage. Ten years of choosing each other. Ten years of creating a life together. Ten years of being a team.

But here I am, settling into reality. I’m celebrating one year of connecting with other widows who bring me life. Other widows who had fairytale marriages they will always cherish. Other widows who had layers of issues in their marriage that they’ll always question and a life they’ll still always cherish.

I don’t know what would have come to our marriage if he were still alive today. Ten years ago I believed that if anything came between us it would be death. Death did separate us. Yet some days, when the air is really thick, I even question that.

As I sit here and wonder what we may be doing to celebrate a decade of marriage, it’s raining outside. It’s pouring down rain like it was the last night he was home. Round and round it goes.

No more blindfolds. I’ve only been in this new world two years. And while I never wanted to live here, I now hope there are so many years left to go.