Chapter 62: Trading tsunamis for silent tides

Sometimes I get tired of hearing my own voice, telling people how I feel. 
My grief. My sadness.  My gratitude.  My wound.  My hurt.  My my my.  Me me me. I feel self-absorbed and I become self-conscious.  I want to stop feeling my grief and my sadness and move on to talk about something else, such as the weather. But of course, I don't actually want to talk about the weather.  At times I don't want to talk about anything.  Talking is an energy expenditure now. Sometimes, I just want to listen to Bach and Tchaikovsky and stare out the windows for a while. Like, for five hours.  OK, that may be exaggerating...  I seem to produce no meaningful work at the office.  I wonder why my paycheck keeps coming...

The intense, stabbing feeling has been replaced by the silent tides that consistently greet me multiple times during my day.  I could be getting ready for work.  Riding the bus.  Microwaving my lunch.  Brewing coffee.  Answering an email. Getting ready for bed.  Writing my blog.  Anything.  And suddenly my eyes would tear up. Or I would cry if I am alone.  Sometimes I sob.  It wasn't over any one thing or things, but over the fact that Eric is gone so early in life.  That he has done SO MUCH GOOD for others yet never expected anything in return but perhaps a smile; that he has so much more he wanted to do, and so much life he wanted to live. Yet, he died.  That he was robbed of his life.  I loathe all the gods that mockingly bestowed the pain and shamelessly robbed my husband of his vibrancy.  Every single one of them gods.  They have gone from irrelevant hypocrisy to repulsiveness to me.  Yes, I resent them all.  I want nothing to do with them.  My true sentiment about them has traveled well beyond anger, and I am not afraid to express it, regardless of how "offensive" it may seem.  

My trusted friend Janelle asked if what I am going through matches what I imagine it would be like to lose Eric.  I thought for a long while.  "Not as heart-wrenching as I have imagined."  "Really??"  I clarified, "I didn't know I have so much strength and resilience in me."  I thank my parents, especially my mom, for being the best example of that soft, kind-hearted but resilient character. Then I added, "I've always known that my family and friends love me, but I didn't know so many people LOVE me that much."  The more they love me, the more I am humbled.  

I attended a support group for the first time this week.  I don't know whether it is helpful or not, but you cannot make a judgement in one 2-hour gathering.  The comforting factor of being in the presence of those who are going through a similar experience can also be exhausting.  I realized at the end of the evening that perhaps the best way to help myself is to allow myself to help others in the most natural way.  The support group may just become an avenue for that.  I can still be a gift to others.  

My heart physically aches for the loss of my husband.  I recognize he is always with me, in my heart.  I know he is always with me, just in another form.  I know he loves me always.  I know our love is without bounds.  He knows I am sad.  He knows I am in pain.  He knows I am exhausted.  He knows I am tired of putting one foot in front of another.  But he also knows I am strong.  He even knows that I have a resilient backbone that is made of kryptonite.  

Knowledge is great.  Really.  Regrettably, it has done little to alleviate my sadness. How many more steps am I supposed to take?  It appears that we have just gotten started...