Empty Act

Today was ”okay”.  My grief wasn’t especially heavy.   But, this is not usual.  Most of the time I feel completely empty inside.  The landscape of my Soul is barren since Mike died.  I wish it was different, but it's not.  I feel empty.  There is an awful hollowness that lives inside me that I can't lose.  

However, most people in my proximity are unaware of my emptiness.  They only see the vibrant life I have.  At first glance, my life appears fairly enviable.  With the exception of Mike's death, I have all the trappings of a good life.  I have the kids, the house, the car, and the career.  I have managed to achieve a lot of success in Suburbia.  The boxes are checked.  My life does not appear to be lacking, but it is...

 

 

Past the wealth of material things, I am largely bankrupt inside.  Yet, to those around me, it is not comprehensible that I continue to feel empty.  Mike has been gone for nearly 2.7 years and I have long passed the “acceptable” amount of time granted for grieving.  If and when I admit to being less than happy I am asked if I need to “talk to *someone?” (*therapist/counsellor/psychologist).  Then,  I am asked if I am “taking *anything”(*meaning a pill for depression or anxiety).  I’m not a doctor, but I know that I am not clinically depressed.  My Soul is aching for a human being who died.  Sure, I’m sad.  I’m beyond sad, but that’s different than clinical depression.  In my opinion, there is no pill that can help me because it’s my Heart and Soul that is broken by his death, not the transmitters in my brain.

*Note: I realize that many people take prescription drugs to deal with depression and anxiety and if it helps them then that's fantastic.  I took anxiety medication for the first four months and it helped me function.  I am not against medication, nor am I any authority on it.  If it was medically necessary I would take whatever was required to get me "better".  However, I have choosen not to medicate myself; and I am confident in my decision because I know that, in my case, it is not neurological.  The chemicals in my brain are not off balance.  It is my soul that is off kilter.  My soul is aching and my heart is broken and there is no pill that can fix this. 

 

All of this said, I understand that people outside of our community want grief to have an end date. They want it to be something like a fever that runs its course.  They want me to be better.  And, here is the thing, I want to be “better” too.  I really do, but grief doesn’t behave like a fever.  Grief doesn’t run hot and then go away.  Initially, it burns wildly; then, it tempers down, but you can still feel it’s warmth.  You know it’s there.  Grief doesn’t break like a fever.  It remains - always.  In some capacity it is there, forever.  

I’ve accepted the foreverness of my grief.  I understand that it has become a part of me that I will never be wholly separated from.  It sounds scary, but it doesn't feel that way to me.  The truth does not scared me because it has freed me.  In fact, I was way more anxious when I was wildly trying to shed my grief.  Fighting grief is futile.  It has more stamina than we ever will.  We have to lean into it.  That's best practice.

With time, my grief itself is changing - I can feel it.  It is composed of less tears and sadness.  Now, it is just more of a constant hollowness inside me.  And, it is as terrible as it sounds. Worse in fact.  The hollowness is vast and consuming.  For me, this hollowness is largely born from the loss of our shared future.  This is what I am grieving most lately.  I am grieving the future I imagined more than I am grieving him which makes me feel guilty.  In the beginning, it was Mike that I yearned for.  And, now, at this point, I think I have finally come to accept that his deadness if forever.  Now, I need to work on accepting that our future died with him.

I miss the woman I thought I'd be in this future he and I were supposed to have.  I wonder who I am now, without him.  And, further, I endlessly think about what I am going to make of my life.  I think - a lot.  I don't have the answers, but I do have endless questions about my uncertain future.  All of this stuff swirls around in my head as sit alone and drink my coffee on Sunday mornings.  These thoughts sit with me as I drive to work; and, later they find me and lay with me as I drift to sleep in my empty bed.  Despite all this, most people on the periphery of my life, believe that everything is returning back to "normal".  They think I am largely recovered from the trauma of Mike's death.  People tell me they think I am "strong".  They tell me that I am "the strongest person they know".  They tell me that they "can't imagine" how I do it. 

Their statements hurt my ears, but moreso, they hurt my heart.  When I am told that I am "strong", I just kind of stare at the person and I look into the beyond as I watch their lips move.  I don't say much in response because I know the truth.  Yes, I am 'strong' because I do not have a f-ing choice.  I have to stay the course for my kids, and for myself.  And, in truth, I don’t know how I do it either.  I just do.

To be clear, I do not feel bitter towards people who make these proclamations about me and my life.  They simply do not understand the depth and breadth of my loss.  I understand that they can not understand.  And, further, I know that they are so very lucky that they "can't imagine" my situation. 

I think that people need to believe that things return to normal after a person dies. They need to believe that I am okay now because if I am okay, that means - if and when this happens to them - they will recover and be okay too.  But, as people who have outlived the person we love, we know differently.  We are not “okay”, but we aren’t altogether not okay.  We just are.

We are cognizant that there is nothing normal about our changed lives.  We are painfully aware that there is no backing up.  We are not able to return to days gone by no matter how desperately we want to.  There simply is nothing to return to.  Our lives can not be as they were before.  That life is over.  It's gone.  It's done.  It died with them.  And, yes, we are 'strong' despite all of this.

 

~Staci

 


Showing 9 reactions

Please check your e-mail for a link to activate your account.
  • Karen Lawrence
    commented 2019-06-11 18:18:44 -0700
    “We are not “okay”, but we aren’t altogether not okay. We just are.” So perfectly said. I’m glad my friends don’t understand this yet, but it’s also so hard that they don’t get it. I’m at almost 7 years and while the grief has gotten softer, it’s always still there. The loss of our shared past and the future we’ll never have is ever present.
  • Staci Sulin
    commented 2019-06-08 13:20:06 -0700
    Bonnie I am glad the blog is helping you cope. Continue to source things and people who make this awful experience slightly more bearable. I hope your grief group is a good fit for you. I attended a few and found them useful. Best to you, ~S.
  • Staci Sulin
    commented 2019-06-08 13:18:16 -0700
    Nancy thank you for your comment. I agree death is a trauma that no one can relate to unless they have also experienced a significant loss.
  • Bonnie Rozean
    commented 2019-06-06 08:08:56 -0700
    Thank you Staci for your astute and accurate description of the state of losing a mate. I thought I had a lot of experience with grief after the loss of 6 family members over a 4 year period. The sudden loss of my soul mate after 47 years in love is quite a totally different experience I’m finding. 71 days in. This blog helps me cope. Going to my first grief support group for spouses this morning. We are not alone. All the best and thank you for sharing your experience with this online community.
  • Nancy Goeglein
    commented 2019-06-05 15:23:14 -0700
    We develop a “new normal “
    because we have to . Grieve should never have a time limit since each grieving process is unique . I did not understand grieving a spouse until I lost my husband six months ago . No one can relate until they go through this trauma. We support each other because we have . My faith is my bed rock and it gives me great comfort.
  • Staci Sulin
    commented 2019-06-04 19:16:30 -0700
    Thank you Dede.
    ~S.
  • Staci Sulin
    commented 2019-06-04 19:16:15 -0700
    Laurie you can follow me on fb too. I post most of my blogs and writing there.
    Staci Sulin
  • Dede Patterson
    commented 2019-06-04 19:02:31 -0700
    You capture it so eloquently; until you have lived it, you can’t relate.
  • Laurie Smith
    followed this page 2019-06-04 06:28:52 -0700