Hollow

In every store you visit the shelves are lined with colorful, foil wrapped chocolate bunnies.  They stand neatly organized in the aisles, adorned with ribbons and bows.  At first glance, these holiday treats catch your eye because they look shiny and decadent.  But, things aren't as they appear.  We know the bunnies are hollow inside even though they look substantial.  I am a lot like these chocolate Easter bunnies.  I appear to have my life together.  I look solid.  But, the reality is that inside I feel empty.

This may come off as slightly dramatic, but it is the truth.  After over 16 months, my life looks shiny and newly restored.  Outwardly, things have remained stable and solid.  In many ways I am a vision of widowed success.  I returned to a good career, I still have the house, the car, and the kids.  On the outside, the condition of my life looks good.  Aside from Mike's death, my life may even be enviable to some; but things are not as they appear.  Like the aesthetically pleasing chocolate bunnies, I look to be well dressed and professionally presented; but, inside me there is something lacking.   Inside of me, in my Soul, the landscape is sterile.  I am hollow inside like the foil bunnies.  On the inside of me there is 'nothing'.  Where there used to be unbridled joy there is now emptiness. 

 

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Now, most certainly, there is a dullness in my eyes that was not there before.  There is an emptiness inside me that I don't know how to fill.  Before Mike died, I did not know that you could be swallowed alive by a sorrow that is born in the depths of your Soul.  I ache for him and I am less engaged in my own life because of his death.  Some moments, the intensity and rawness of my grief consumes me from the inside out.  Thankfully, these gutting days are less frequent as time goes on. 

Time has tamed the wildness of my grief.  The edges of my shattered self are smoothing.  My tears do not last as long anymore.  My inconsolable sobbing has turned into quiet crying.  And, now, my aching is somewhat refined - if that is even possible.  With time, I am beginning to slowly digest the reality.  He is dead.  This is real. 

Mike's death altered me in ways I didn't expect.  Since he died, I feel like I participate in my life without enthusiasm.  This is not acceptable to me.  I want more.  But, at this moment, I am not yet capable of living more fully.  As I live without him, my heart is desperately trying to make sense of what my mind knows.  This is my life now, but, 16 months and 11 days later,  I still feel like I am without direction.  I am searching for purpose and progress feels slow.  I am growing restless though I know I will find my footing - eventually.  Without a doubt, I know that I have the stuff to make it through this "mess".  But, I am impatient.  I want to breath in life again.  I do not want to live with this endless emptiness forever.  And, I know that it's up to me to change this.  The future is in my hands.  I need to play the cards I was dealt.  And, I'm telling you, I plan to play the hell out of what I've been given.

Yet, despite my all in attitude and brave talk, a part of me is scared of the unknown.  When I look in the mirror I don't recognize myself anymore - my eyes look different.  They don't reflect back life the way they used to.  I am changed.  My tired eyes stare blanking at everything.  It feels like my eyes are wide open, but shut at the same time.  Now, I wander aimlessly through my day.  At the grocery store, I stop and take a deep breath because the smell of fresh baked dinner rolls reminds me of him.  The jugs of Clamato juice stare coldly at me as I pass by.  The red roma tomato waves to me and the dusty russet potato calls my name.  Sometimes the allure is too much and I stop and hold the gritty, dirt covered potato in my hand while I bite my bottom lip to keep my hot tears from streaming down my cheeks.  Then, a few aisles later, in the frozen section, his meat pies, in their cardboard boxes, glare at me. Finally, as I am leaving the store, the bouquets of red roses coyly wink at me, then they whisk me back to him.  I am aware that I can not let frozen meat pies and red roses control me if I am going to move boldly towards life.  I have to get a hold of myself.

 

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Since he died, I have created all sorts of new rituals and homespun attempts to soothe myself.  Now, without thinking, I often look up at the sky, close my eyes and then proceed to talk to myself.  As I speak, I encourage myself to "get it together".  After work, I've stood in countless parking lots looking upward, trying to "get my shit together" before I go home to 'adult' and parent my children.  I feel like the poster child for a broken middle aged woman who is completely overwhelmed and underwhelmed all at once.  I yearn to be like the other women in the grocery store who are simply buying groceries, not day dreaming of a dead man while they stand in the produce aisle.  

Because I am consumed with memories of a life that no longer exists I am becoming detached from people around me.  I am aware of this, yet I think that it is necessary for the time being.  I want to re-create my life and this involves going inward before I move forward.  While I am detaching from others, I am growing closer to myself.  This is a good thing.  And, it is necessary for me to examine my heart before I commit to anything.

In the parking lot and in the produce aisle I have asked myself what I want to do with my life - these are some heavy questions.  And, admittedly, these questions are too big to be pondered in either of these locations.  But, nonetheless, what is important is that I have taken the time to ask myself these significant questions.  I believe the answers will come, with time.  Many a night, I have stood washing dishes, looking out into my backyard, asking myself what I want.  At this point, I don't have a well thought out plan, but I feel like I am getting close to knowing what I need to do. 

At the heart of it, I believe that I have the capability to achieve whatever I want.  The issue isn't my ability - it is fear.  Fear of more change.  I feel scared to make a move without him.  And, because of my fear, I lack the motivation necessary to make changes.   I have no spark anymore; and, most days I am not even motivated to strike a match.  I hate admitting this, but, right now, I lack the enthusiasm needed to create the momentum that is necessary to re-build my life.  I am existing safely.  But, thankfully, I am outgrowing the comfort of the limitations I have created for myself.  In the early days, I was disappointed in myself because I was unhinged because of his death.  But, as time has progressed, I am okay with this because I know that it is necessary for me to come undone, in order to move forward.  I now understand that I need my toes to touch the bottom before I re-surface.  I know that I will find the momentum to get me to where I need to be.  I have always had grit.  And, if I ever doubt my capability, I remind myself that once upon a time I was his.  And, he loved me because I was solid.  There is nothing hollow about me.

 

Wrapped in grit -not foil,

 

Staci


Showing 8 reactions

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  • Staci Sulin
    commented 2018-04-18 14:41:24 -0700
    Denise, I am glad that Soaring Spirits is helping you. I think there is an immediate kinship among us all who are travelling this road. Together we feel understood and less isolated. I’m grateful to be part of a community that helps others. All the best to you and to us all as we navigate the waters of grief. ~S
  • Staci Sulin
    commented 2018-04-18 14:38:50 -0700
    Sharon, I am not glad that you are familiar with the hollow feeling I described, but I am grateful to know that what I wrote resonated with you. I agree that, with time, “glimmers of enthusiasm” return once again. All the best to you, and to us all. ~S
  • Sharon Wall
    commented 2018-04-17 19:05:59 -0700
    Here it is – almost 4 years since Brian died and I’ve recently been thinking the same things you’re writing about. I’ve been so familiar with that hollow feeling, looking fine on the outside, yet not wanting to engage with my life, going inward, engaging less with others – all of it. Finally the inner work I’ve been doing seems to be paying off and I’m getting glimmers of enthusiasm again. Thank you for putting my feelings into such eloquent words.
  • Denise DiGrazia Lishefski
    commented 2018-04-17 17:36:03 -0700
    Staci, thank you so much for sharing your feelings. You described exactly how I feel, but much more eloquently than I ever could. It’s been just over 6 months since I lost my Chris and the harsh reality of my new life is setting in. I am so grateful for all of the Soaring Spirits programs.
  • Staci Sulin
    commented 2018-04-15 13:58:04 -0700
    Linda, Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts with me. You are in the early days still. The shock is likely beginning to wear off for you. I thought the first 4 months were completely disorientating. I found the devastation of those initial months has not been duplicated since – for me at least. But, grief still can be heavy; however, I am glad that grief is fluid. It gets different with time, softer around the edges; but, still, there are moments that bring me to my knees. I think there always will be. With time, we just absorb it into us and carry it more gracefully – if that’s possible.

    I love that we can connect here and feel that we are not alone. This helps.
    All the best to you, and to us all. ~S
  • Staci Sulin
    commented 2018-04-15 13:52:00 -0700
    Candace, Thank you for taking the time to leave a comment, I appreciate this. I agree that there is comfort is knowing that someone else is also living what you are. I love this community because we can lean into one another for support. All the best to you, and the best to us all as we navigate this new, changed life.
  • Linda Kirby
    commented 2018-04-10 00:20:06 -0700
    Well written words that ring very true to how I feel Staci. Still only 6 months since I lost my husband. I present this glossy, I’m doing ok exterior to the world, when inside me feels so empty. I feel like a ship without rudder, aimlessly getting through each day. I had that very same experience in the Supermarket yesterday that you spoke of. Most days its not a problem, but yesterday every item I looked at reminded me of him in some way. Could never believe prior to this, what feelings one would experience, as a widow. I was a strong willed person before this, with a can do attitude for anything thrown my way. A little of that remains, and I remain positive that life will one day my life will have some normalcy in it. Thank you for sharing. Always reassuring to know you’re not alone. All the best to you x
  • Candace Woodring
    commented 2018-04-09 16:20:01 -0700
    Thank you so much for sharing your feelings Staci. I seem presentable also on the outside and only those of us who have had our hearts so completely shattered understand the hollowness. Your words help me to not feel so completely alone. I too am building those wings on the way down. Thank you, sending hugs your way.