Standing Naked

I recently asked the complicated question of identifying the heaviest feeling within our grief that takes over all the others. Guilt is very common in grief and often shades the other feelings, but it isn’t the ruler for us all. I was interested in the one that keeps popping up and pulling you backward, whether it was guilt or something else. I directed this to women in The Foul-Mouthed Widow Support Group, based on a line in the description: Foul-mouthed widows are learning to let go of those nagging feelings of guilt in order to prioritize the life they are living now.

When I asked the question, my hope was it would ignite personal reflection and I didn’t believe I was going to get an overwhelming amount of responses. But sometimes I throw things up I may need to work on or something I believe may help someone else and just see how it goes. In this case, I wasn’t even sure how to answer my own question. I commented with some ramblings that went from feelings of numbness and the cycle of love and anger that led me to my discovery of resentment. While I could write out an entire list of feelings, resentment really sticks. Since the beginning, I’ve been on a rollercoaster ride of acceptance and resentment. Peace and anger.

When a person becomes widowed and people begin to tell them about grief and healing, I think everyone has their own interpretation. They have their own idea of what it looks like and how it’s processed and how it’s shown. They want the pretty bow. What I don’t think many people understand is when our spouse dies, we die too. Our death isn’t physical, hopefully, but we die. We grieve the loss of our spouse, but there are so many other relationships and things we lose in the aftermath of that. And while some of it may stem directly from the death of our spouse, like relationships with their friends or their side of the family, the others we lose because of the death of ourselves. When we are smacked in the face with such a catastrophic event, wiping the blood from our body leaves us differently.

It changes our vision.

It changes how we move.

Personally, I can’t even hold onto my physical body and its individual beauty. That isn’t mine to keep, either. Grief doesn’t solely tug at our hearts and tear ducts. It’s head to toe. My stomach isn’t strong. My skin is stretched. My face is scarred. My hair is thin.

I’m naked.

I’m exposed.

When my husband first died I felt I was walking among the ruins of an earthquake. Nothing had its place. Everything was gone. The world instantly changed. Yet, somehow, I was overtaken by acceptance and love more than anything else and it was a strange feeling. I remember feeling confused that my heart was so peaceful. I was devastated and in shock, but I didn’t blame anyone. I didn’t hate anyone. I was irritated with all the questions about what happened at his job site. I was bothered when asked to look more into this or that. “Accidents happen,” is what I told myself. And this was a fatal one. But it wasn’t long before that acceptance was lost and resentment began to truly set in. All the lawyers and paperwork and this and that and show this and need this before that type bullshit really added and added to a growing hatred for the general public, to put it mildly.

And I know I’m not alone to say that in the midst of all the run-arounds and circles, we learn (or are reminded) that simply because something is the “right” thing to do, simply because it is a kind-hearted thing to do, it doesn’t mean we’ll receive that. Not from a stranger, not from someone we’ve celebrated holidays with. Pushing it even further, yet closer, we quickly learn that many people who offer help do it for themselves. The help that doesn’t help you, but let’s them feel better about themselves. Gives them something to say they did. The help that is followed by chatter. Making you laugh and feel happy is for them, so they can say they did that. It has nothing to do with you. And if they want you to be happy on a day that you’re covered in bricks and unable to play the part, they’ll get upset with you for not signing and dancing. “I know you’re going through some shit, but…” So on top of everything else, we now regret believing we didn’t need a mask. Because everyone wants a jester. At their convenience. It’s disheartening and frustrating. Disappointing.

When we speak of healing, when we say how messy it is, it’s mostly due to the lack of a better term. We don’t “heal” from this sort of loss. When you get a paper cut and it’s healed, your skin is back to the way it was before that awful sting. In the case of living after the death of your partner, that isn’t going to happen. You are not going back to the way you were beforehand. Parts of you stay the same, yes, but you are not the same. We can always work on mending our hearts, bodies, and brains. But our being is different.

Conversation starters that we once enjoyed are trivial to us now. Social situations that we used to enjoy sound dreadful. Not that we won’t ever go, but our interests have changed. Our view of the world is different because we no longer live with the notion that people die someday after a long life, eventually. We live with the reality that the world we live in will be different tomorrow. Because of this, we develop greater patience for situations we wouldn’t have before and lose patience for ones we once gave more slack.

Even mundane things can make my resentment surface. Filling out a form: Single or married? I’m without a husband, but I struggle with not being married. I’m widowed, not divorced. I don’t have an ex. I don’t have an absentee dad for my kids. I have a dead one. There’s a difference. The people who say there is not are those that do not have a dead one. I pay for family memberships and resent it all. I don’t resent my husband for dying, but I do wonder if I would be writing this if he had just stayed home that weekend.

Resentment is consuming. I don’t know if I’ll ever be rid of it completely, but I’ll always work toward it. I started this decade marrying the person I trusted with my heart and ended it by hanging a memorial ornament in honor of him on the Christmas tree with our children. It’s a battle to say that sentence and not feel my chest tighten. To not get angry. To not let my grief flood over me.

It’s a two steps forward, one step back process. I’m working on it by reminding myself people’s actions have more to do with them than me. I’m working on it by being thankful not everyone knows the depths of grief and reminding myself I didn’t either. I remind myself that none of us are entitled to anything. Nothing at all. Not an apology, respect, acknowledgement—nothing. I’ve been stripping everything and anything that doesn’t belong to me while realizing nothing ever did. And when I hold onto that, when I believe that nothing was ever mine, I can get back to the place of acceptance and peace. I can stand naked with all my flaws and know I have everything I need to continue moving forward. I can be thankful for the love we shared. I can let go of expectations and surrender to the ground always moving.

Unsteady.

Heart cut open.

Exposed.

Hidden.

Moving.