Grief is a funhouse full of distorted mirrors. Most days I feel like a circus freak, still. It's in my emotions, my reactions and the way people look at me. Not the center attraction in the circus but certainly a curiosity in the side show tent.
I feel a bit steadier than I did nine months ago when Norm died. Steadier but I cannot say I have found my feet yet. I have searched my soul for a good analogy but I just do not have one. There is really nothing to describe it: one day you have the person who made your life. The next you do not. It is not having the rug pulled out from under you- then you would just get back up and everything would resume as normal. Nothing is normal now and I am continually off kilter.
The things I think about have changed. Mentally I am always making a list. No matter what happens in a day it ticks immediately over to the "Norm will not experience this with me" list. Whether it is a change at work, a milestone for one of the kids, a rainstorm, just another lunch hour when he would have been with me, a new neighbour or a more difficult challenge I immediately feel that ping of it adding to the list of things I cannot share with him. Other lists fill my head too. The list of our plans we cannot finish. The lengthy list of things I need to talk to him about, but once again, I cannot.
It has changed the things I wish for people too. I used to wish everyone could find what I had. A person who just got them, did not judge them and who always had their back. A person who loved them fiercely and wholly. Someone who knew how much to push and when they had had enough. Who could pull a smile out of awfulness and weep with them when necessary. Not sure I would wish that for everyone anymore. At very least, it might be easier to go through life not realizing that truly having "another half" is possible. Being in it: wondrous and enchanted. Being left behind by it: excruciating. So perhaps I would wish that death was not a thing at all. That those of us who love should be exempt.
So my emotions run a weird confusing maze now. Yes, I think sweet older couples are adorable. At the same time part of me deep in my brain is screaming that that could have been us and should have been. Sure, I am excited for my kids when they learn something new. Learn to drive, make new friends, try to cook something all on their own, make plans to move or to go to school. On the other side of excitement is just so much pain. He should be here, he would be so pumped up. How is it right or possible that he cannot be here to share this with us? My emotions look like that kid's attraction at the Fall Fair. The one with the crazy tippy floors and spinning rooms. Glass walls I run into at a moment's notice.
I miss things that I shouldn't miss. I miss being cuddled. I miss body heat. I miss having another human care if I am upset. I miss him fighting with me over who should pay for things. Him teasing me about getting old. Him calling me Puddles. The late night calls that used to drive me crazy. His snoring and his crankiness and the overly manly way he stepped in and defended me if anyone dared say a negative thing about me or anyone he loved. Having someone to talk to who listened and didn't make it about him. Who didn't have to compare what was happening to his life because I was his life. Someone who just got it: even the my stupid sense of humour. I miss all these things and more but I have no way to regain them. The source of these things is gone. These precious things.
Often since "it" happened I have wished that no one else knew. Impossible. Life doesn't allow for that. Just desire a moment when I could be alone in my grief. Where I did not have to deal with the sad looks, stories from others, platitudes. The assumption from some that every reaction I have or action I take is a result of grief. The sad head tilts in moments when I am doing okay that set me right back. The need some people seem to have to share all the negative past moments he had. Like, really. Not my experience. Go talk to someone else. I cringe inside and resist the urge to kick in some teeth. I walk away and feel that somehow I have caved just by listening. Diminished somehow. I hope those people have enough conscience to feel embarrassed by those statements and especially embarrassed to have shared them with me....or my children. I am pretty sure they don't. At least not as horribly bad as they should. Other people are the Roller coaster of grief. There's great heights and huge drops. Unexpected turns. It can leave you feeling exhilarated for a minute. It can also leave you feeling violently nauseous.
Very early on I said to someone, somewhere that I wished I was about six months in so that I was past the worst of the uncertainty, the misery. Well, here I am. Nine months. Not much better. Not much stronger. A little more worried about a few things. A lot more lonely. Full of a void that only my Gnomie can fill. My estimate was profoundly off. My hope I guess, a little too optimistic.
I feel a bit steadier than I did nine months ago when Norm died. Steadier but I cannot say I have found my feet yet. I have searched my soul for a good analogy but I just do not have one. There is really nothing to describe it: one day you have the person who made your life. The next you do not. It is not having the rug pulled out from under you- then you would just get back up and everything would resume as normal. Nothing is normal now and I am continually off kilter.
The things I think about have changed. Mentally I am always making a list. No matter what happens in a day it ticks immediately over to the "Norm will not experience this with me" list. Whether it is a change at work, a milestone for one of the kids, a rainstorm, just another lunch hour when he would have been with me, a new neighbour or a more difficult challenge I immediately feel that ping of it adding to the list of things I cannot share with him. Other lists fill my head too. The list of our plans we cannot finish. The lengthy list of things I need to talk to him about, but once again, I cannot.
It has changed the things I wish for people too. I used to wish everyone could find what I had. A person who just got them, did not judge them and who always had their back. A person who loved them fiercely and wholly. Someone who knew how much to push and when they had had enough. Who could pull a smile out of awfulness and weep with them when necessary. Not sure I would wish that for everyone anymore. At very least, it might be easier to go through life not realizing that truly having "another half" is possible. Being in it: wondrous and enchanted. Being left behind by it: excruciating. So perhaps I would wish that death was not a thing at all. That those of us who love should be exempt.
So my emotions run a weird confusing maze now. Yes, I think sweet older couples are adorable. At the same time part of me deep in my brain is screaming that that could have been us and should have been. Sure, I am excited for my kids when they learn something new. Learn to drive, make new friends, try to cook something all on their own, make plans to move or to go to school. On the other side of excitement is just so much pain. He should be here, he would be so pumped up. How is it right or possible that he cannot be here to share this with us? My emotions look like that kid's attraction at the Fall Fair. The one with the crazy tippy floors and spinning rooms. Glass walls I run into at a moment's notice.
I miss things that I shouldn't miss. I miss being cuddled. I miss body heat. I miss having another human care if I am upset. I miss him fighting with me over who should pay for things. Him teasing me about getting old. Him calling me Puddles. The late night calls that used to drive me crazy. His snoring and his crankiness and the overly manly way he stepped in and defended me if anyone dared say a negative thing about me or anyone he loved. Having someone to talk to who listened and didn't make it about him. Who didn't have to compare what was happening to his life because I was his life. Someone who just got it: even the my stupid sense of humour. I miss all these things and more but I have no way to regain them. The source of these things is gone. These precious things.
Often since "it" happened I have wished that no one else knew. Impossible. Life doesn't allow for that. Just desire a moment when I could be alone in my grief. Where I did not have to deal with the sad looks, stories from others, platitudes. The assumption from some that every reaction I have or action I take is a result of grief. The sad head tilts in moments when I am doing okay that set me right back. The need some people seem to have to share all the negative past moments he had. Like, really. Not my experience. Go talk to someone else. I cringe inside and resist the urge to kick in some teeth. I walk away and feel that somehow I have caved just by listening. Diminished somehow. I hope those people have enough conscience to feel embarrassed by those statements and especially embarrassed to have shared them with me....or my children. I am pretty sure they don't. At least not as horribly bad as they should. Other people are the Roller coaster of grief. There's great heights and huge drops. Unexpected turns. It can leave you feeling exhilarated for a minute. It can also leave you feeling violently nauseous.
Very early on I said to someone, somewhere that I wished I was about six months in so that I was past the worst of the uncertainty, the misery. Well, here I am. Nine months. Not much better. Not much stronger. A little more worried about a few things. A lot more lonely. Full of a void that only my Gnomie can fill. My estimate was profoundly off. My hope I guess, a little too optimistic.
