Grief and God

Warning: Just about any discussion of faith is bound to offend someone.

There is nothing that calls into question your spiritual beliefs more than death. In life, it's easy to ignore God. He's up there, we're down here... you know how it is. Most people give some passing thought to their belief structures, but very few sit down and really have a heart to heart with God until they have to. Grief forces that experience on us. One of the things I've realized is that when the world that exists beyond this one becomes personal, than the whole life/death/afterlife thing becomes a lot more central to daily existance. I imagine it's a lot like how a child views the IRS: you may hear of it, you hear old people talk about it with fear, frustration and awe, you may glean the impression that it is an incredibly complicated issue rife with monetary tribute and yearly rituals, but you don't have any real relationship with the IRS until life forces you into it. The death of our loved ones requires us to re-evaluate what we really think, because suddenly it actually applies to those we care about and ourselves. I'm not sure, but I bet the terminally ill also know what I mean. Well, the terminally and any child whose parents lost their house to the demi-God that is the IRS.

What concerns me is that I find this experience - this coming to terms with ones own faith, if you will - to be a personal journey. One that every person has to figure out on their own. Maybe they run out of gas halfway through. Maybe they want to stop and ask others for directions. Maybe they stop and buy some Cheetos. The point is that the only person that can drive that road is you, and in the end we all wind up in different places. Even if you're the same faith as someone else, there are always elements of faith and religion that remain open to debate and varying interpretation, which means there isn't a single person on this earth that holds the exact same views as any other. It's part of what makes us incredible, part of what makes us human and part of why the divine is a mystery. Nobody has all the answers, not even you. All you've got is what you believe to be true based on what made the most sense out of all the stuff you've been told by those who went before you. Yeah, the road to faith is a personal one; but there seem to be an awful lot of backseat drivers.

Now, I understand as well as anyone that the grieving experience can wreak havoc with our faith, whatever it is we have faith in (be it God, Allah, Buddha or asparagus). It is natural to reach out to others in pain by offering them a sampling of your own beliefs: if it comforts you, then it may comfort them as well. It's usually a gesture made out of kindess and a wish to ease the pain others feel in the way your own pain is eased. Especially if a person has yet to come to any conclusions about what they believe, they may reach out to others, asking for other peoples opinions about what goes on with that Man behind the curtain. I can respect that, just as I can respect your unfettered right to believe whatever it is that strikes you as truth.

But so help me God, don't preach to me. Now before you lay into me for that last line, let me clarify. What I mean is don't look down on me because what I think is different than what you think (feel sorry for me if you must, but don't hold me in contempt; Jesus didn't). Don't tell me the consequences of not following your religion. Don't lecture me, don't chastise me and don't tell me what to believe without a reason to believe it (btw, "because it's God's word" is not a reason). Most of all, don't expect me to listen to your opinion if you're not willing to let me sell you mine with equal respect. It's one thing to offer ones beliefs when asked, one thing to offer your opinion respectfully as no more than that: a personal truth that means a lot to you. It's another thing entirely to pass judgement on my life, my beliefs or my faith because they don't line up with your personal truths. I'm perfectly willing to hear your truth and why you believe it to be so. I welcome that discussion, for we can't make informed opinions unless we have a lot of information to draw from in the first place. But that discussion needs to be taken with an I belive __x__ stance, and not a Believe this or else stance or a Believe this for it is the only truth stance. Do Not assume that just because a person's faith is different from yours that they have no faith at all. I respect you and your right to believe in whatever God brings you peace and meaning. But I think even God Asparagus would agree that I deserve that same respect in return.

I'm sorry in advance if this is offensive to anyone, but my experience of late has shown me that it needed to be said. I welcome and respect your point of view even if I don't agree with it, and I hope - expect - that you'll do the same.

Six Month Slump

July 1st was the six-month anniversary of my widowhood. From the many resources on grief I've explored, many of them identify landmark months that are difficult for many people - especially prominent are the fourth, sixth, eighth and twelfth months. So, I pretty much take this to mean that you spend the first four months walking around in a fog thinking "this can't be happening." Then you spend four months in an on-again off-again relationship with pain. I'm ok... wait a minute, no I'm not... no, no wait... yeah, I am ok... wait... no I'm not. Then you spend four months thinking ok, I can live through this... this sucks, but I'll be alright. Or maybe the previous four-month roller coaster is just so exhausting that you're numb for four months after that. But then one day you wake up and think... holy shit, it's been a year since my life was destroyed?

For myself, I'm finding this past month (month six) particularly difficult. As many of you know, I was blessed to have the opportunity to go on a trip to Ireland with my beautiful and amazing sister for two weeks. The country was incredible, I was ridiculously grateful to have the opportunity to become closer to Trace, and it was a chance to take a trip many people only dream of. But, to be honest, it was one of the hardest periods I've gone through since CJ died. I was so often reminded of him, of how life was before, of what it's like to be young and happy and in love. What should have been the trip of a lifetime was painful for me because in the end it didn't change my circumstances. Several times in the past six months I've thought about how much I just want to go away and start over. But that's not it, not really. More than wanting a change of scenery what I really want is a change of circumstance.

This month I have been so angry and cynical, far more so then before. The hope I was harboring that it was all for a purpose, or that it was all just a bad dream or whatever... that sense of "hang on, things will be alright" just never panned out. I've described before how I felt this driving sense of anxiety or anticipation, like I was waiting for change or waiting for answers. But at some point in the last month I've realized that I wasn't looking for anything new, I was searching for what I'd lost. Like my dog if you hide his toys from him. I've spent this past six months walking around looking for the missing piece of my puzzle, the one that used to fill this hole that consumes me. Realizing that has in some way reinforced the reality that he's not coming back, that I won't ever see him or touch him or talk to him ever again. And it is that realization that has preyed so heavily on my well-being this month.

My fourth wedding anniversary is this week. I guess that got me thinking about the idea of anniversaries in general. If you look at other young women in their twenties, their anniversaries are a bit different than mine, aren't they? They're six months pregnant, they've been with their fiance for 8 months, they've been out of college for three months, their baby girl is seven months old. All I've got to look forward to is counting months since he's been gone, counting the number of years we would have been married if he'd been here, his birthday next month would have been his 25th. I'm so dreading our birthdays, and don't get me started on the holidays. The first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas... all the New Year's. When you lose someone like this, you begin to count your milestones in reverse instead of forward. Instead of "someday we'll" you think "we used to". Instead of "two months until" you think "six months since". It's hard to focus positively on the future when you're living life marking time in "sinces" instead of "untils".

The widow support groups I participate in all assure me that the "six-month slump" is normal. I'm not even sure that's what this is. All I know is that the last month as seen me change into an angry, bitter, old, lonely and devastated woman. Before, I felt him. I thought I got signs from him... but now I don't feel him there at all. Me and what remains of my life are all that's left, and frankly, that's not amounting to a whole lot this month. Maybe it gets better. But in all honesty, my give-a-damn's busted. With that, let me also add a sincere apology to anyone who's been subject to my anger or my malaise of late. Apparently if you talk to me again in November, I'll be better. Maybe this drop is part of the healing process; what goes down must go up?

While I usually try to end these conversations of ours with a message of hope for all my fellow widders, I'm afraid I just can't make it work today. Everything I've tried to write comes out fake and forced. All I can tell you is that sometimes, you need to sit down and cry. Sometimes you need to yell at God and break things. Sometimes you need to drive ninety on the open road without a seatbelt on and dare fate to do something about it. Sometimes you need to eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's by yourself and to hell with the fat count. Sometimes you NEED to grieve.

The following song is by Gary Allan, a country singer whose young wife committed suicide last October. His new album, Tough All Over, has several songs dealing with widowhood and grief, especially Just Back From Hell and this one, which I've been playing all week.

Life Ain't Always Beautiful

Life aint always beautiful
Sometimes it's just plain hard
Life can knock you down, it can break your heart

Life aint always beautiful
You think you're on your way
And it's just a dead end road at the end of the day

But the struggles make you stronger
And the changes make you wise
And happiness has its own way of takin it's sweet time

CHORUS
No, life aint always beautiful
Tears will fall sometimes
Life aint always beautiful
But it's a beautiful ride

Life aint always beautiful
Some days I miss your smile
I get tired of walkin all these lonely miles

And I wish for just one minute
I could see your pretty face
Guess I can dream, but life don’t work that way

But the struggles make me stronger
And the changes make me wise
And happiness has its own way of takin it's sweet time

No, life aint always beautiful
But i know i'll be fine
Hey, life aint always beautiful
But it's a beautiful ride
What a beautiful ride

-- Gary Allan

Roadside Cross

We put CJ's roadside cross up last weekend. I'd like to take the opportunity to thank everyone who came out on the day we put it up. Toby went to a lot of effort to have it made and painted for us, and our gratitude is inexpressable. Special thanks to all those who helped us dig the hole and lay the concrete, and to Skate for bringing the shade. I must admit, I was surprised that so many people came. For those of you who would like to visit the cross, you'll find it on Lake Mead Road, at mile marker 36, just after the 40 mph left curve. You'll find it on the south side of the road, across a ditch. There is also another cross close by, for the motorcycle rider that died in the same spot the month before CJ's accident. We have also placed several orange cones out there to warn of the ditch that CJ didn't see. Maybe it will help save someone elses life... We encourage you all to visit as often as you like.

The brass plates were given to the family by an incredibly kind woman. Even though her business only takes commercial clients, she took the time out of her schedule to personally make the brass plates for us, and then refused payment. I mention this only because it seems sad that we're so touched and surprised by simple human kindness and compassion. I've always thought celtic knots were beautiful, but do you know what they represent? No ancient symbol is merely decorative. The trinity knot (three points in a never ending line) represents the eternal nature of life, and the divine mystery. A quote I like (from one yogi or another - do those guys even have names?) says this philosophy better. It goes "Aren't you enjoying your chocolate? You should, for I tell you this: you have nothing to fear and you should not worry. For birth is not a beginning and death is not an end..."

Kim read a beautiful Irish Funeral Prayer that i would also like to share with you:

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Everything remains as it was.
The old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no sorrow in your tone.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort
Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was.
There is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting, when we meet again.

The cross is beautiful. But Toby should have never have had to have it made. Kim and Jerry should never have had to put their sons name on it. I should have never have had to look at it. None of us should have had to do this. But if we had to, I'm glad we did it right. All we can do is the best we can, and I think that this cross is the best tribute we could have put up there.
Oh, and if you do stop by, feel free to bring a little Captain Morgan Private stock to share with him... I'm sure he'd appreciate it. When I go, I'll drink a toast the good old times, the friends we should never lose and the things that we don't want to do but do anyway, because sometimes there's nothing else to do.

Blessed be.

Public Displays of Affliction

Maybe it's just me; I'm willing to accept that. And maybe it's unhealthy; I'm willing to accept that as well. But the fact of the matter is that I HATE to cry in front of other people. I hate for them to see me hurt. I suppose it's twofold: I don't want to burden them with my problems and crying in front of other people makes me feel self-conscious. Rest assured that if you've seen me cry it was most likely against my will. But I don't think it's just me... I think we all have this problem. Don't reach out, don't open up, don't share, don't lean... don't tell them how you really feel. Apologize to them when you cry. After awhile the bereaved become experts of hiding their emotions from other people. In the beginning, it showed all the time. You had "I'm in pain," written all over your face. Sometimes people notice, sometimes they don't. Sometimes the people who notice care, but most often they don't know what to do. And really, I'm not sure I ever really wanted anyone to either notice or care. Grief has become something personal. I could have shared this experience with Siege; but with him gone, there's no one else I really care to let see that side of me. It's kind of like how we'll let everyone in the world see us when we're clean and make-uped and dressed nice. We only let those we truly love see what we look like right when we wake up in the morning. It's personal, you know?

Why do we do that, though? Why do we close ourselves off that way? Sometimes when I see pictures of people in other countries (especially during celebration and tragedy) it strikes me by how close they all are. They seem to touch, to share, to care - total strangers are as open as the closest families. It gives a new meaning to community. They hold each other, either in despair or in joy, and everyone around seems to take one person's feelings on as their own. Men hug each other, console each other and they cry together. When's the last time you saw two men hug each other and cry, either in pain or joy? I'm not sure I ever have... It seems to me that we, as a society, seem extermely uncomfortable with other people's emotions. We tense when others touch us - what are their intentions? what do they want? why aren't they respecting my space? am I wearing deoderant today?. It's even worse when we see people who hurt. We can't face other people's grief, we don't know what to do with it. We are a results driven people, and you just can't fix some problems. They'll give you that look, that meaningful, slightly panicy look. "You okay?" God, I hate that fucking question. I know (as we all know) that they mean well. But it's just... how in the hell do they think I'm doing? I'm freaking awesome, thanks for asking. So we smile wearily instead of roll our eyes, and say "I'm fine, thanks". And then we stare at each other for a few seconds while they wait to see if you'll say anything else, before dropping it with a sense of relief. You can almost hear their telepathic entreaty to you, "Please, please feel better."

There was a post on the Young Widow's Bulletin Board the other day, where the author referred to all the other people as "normals". All those who continue on in their daily lives, blissfully unaware of how quickly and easily the things that matter can be ripped away from you. It's like a twisted version of the Sixth Sense: "I see normal people...". Grief and loss change so much, so fast - both in our outer lives and within ourselves - that you can't help but view everyone else as living in some rarified world of ignorance. So when they stare at you like that, like there's something wrong with you that they wish they could fix, it can't help but make you feel like an outsider. I imagine that's why veterans rarely care to talk about the horrors of war to anyone except other veterans: you can't possibly understand unless you've been there.

But it's more than that. I think we, as a society, are inadequate at dealing with death in general. We don't teach our children how to handle it, how to face it. We have so little death as a country - compared to places like Africa which faces Aids, famine and civil war, or the Middle East which suffers from daily random violence. We want to tell our children that everything is always going to be alright, that bad things don't happen to good people, that when bad things do happen they happen for a reason. We want to protect those we love from the bad things, from the truth: that life isn't a fairytale, that it certainly isn't fair, and that part of being human is learning to live with that, and make the best life you can anyway. People know that. We understand it, on some esoteric, metaphoric level. But until you experience it, you really don't know anything. It just makes me wonder which version of the truth better serves our children? The version where life is fair if you work hard and are a good person and death only happens when we're old and ready for it? Or the version where nothing good is permanent and life can change on a simple whim or in a single moment?

People believe the first version because we like for things to have meaning, to be explainable and understandable. People like to think that even death can't stop true love and that the good don't die young. And maybe for a lot of people that's true. But perhaps if we were taught the second version, we'd have a greater appreciation for the things that are really important - no matter how permanent we think they are in our lives. Maybe we'd stop worrying so much about what everyone else thought. Maybe we'd be kinder to one another and not take the small things for granted... But even more than that, maybe we'd be better at handling life when things don't turn out the way we'd planned; and perhaps we'd find an even better and more comfortable way of dealing with other people's loss and pain as well as our own.