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((Jen)) Sometimes all you can do is keep breathing. I can say - from much further out (9 years in November) - that it's okay to be stuck, and is, in fact, pretty normal to feel stuck so early on. (And, just as an aside, your therapist will be okay with it, and if she's not, find a new therapist.) I remember feeling so lost and so uncertain about my future at two and a half years, so convinced that I would always feel lost, sad, lonely...and as if my life would never fit again. A board member who was further out at the time said: "This healing stuff takes time, and what I felt at one year is light years away from what I feel working on my fourth year. What I wanted at 1 year, 2 years is very different from what I want and feel capable of working on at 4 years." There were days when I held on to that statement with a desperate grip, and slowly...far more slowly than I might have hoped, I realized it was true for me, too, and it has continued to be true all along. The good news, the bad news: two and a half(ish) years is still early days. It's okay to be stuck, it's okay to not have a clear path, to not know the way to get to where you long to be. What can help, I think, is to be patient & kind to yourself in your grief, to find ways to hunker down & hold on when you need to, and to fall back on taking it one moment at a time when it seems necessary. Knowing how you want to feel: at peace, content, safe, joyful...whatever it is for you...knowing what you want but not necessarily how to get it, may just be enough. I believe that if we can nurture some small faith in our eventual ability to self right, we will; although really, in the long run, it probably doesn't matter whether we believe it or not, we will. I found myself, in my despair, imagining that I had a rock tied with a string, and every time I got stuck, I'd throw the rock & follow the string. And wherever it led...at least it was somewhere new. If nothing else, time softens the edges. But I think it does more; when we allow ourselves the grace of time to integrate the enormous changes in our horizon, our internal topography, we allow ourselves to recover, heal and grow steadier in our stride. At the risk of sounding like I'm co-opting Dan Savage, it gets better. It does. Until then, sending healing thoughts and virtual hugs, and a hopeful note from further along on the journey. Kate

I'm sorry that your son is continuing to struggle, and as the mom of a similarly aged young adult with his own issues, I get how hard it is to know how to support him. There's a book that I read recently & have thought a lot about lately. It's called: Beyond Addiction, How science and kindness help people change. It's written by a team of psychologists who work with people in recovery, and it's for their families. It's about nurturing motivation and supporting change. While much of their work is done with substance users, it's really about helping anyone who's struggling. I think it offers practical, realistic advice, and encourages people to find a way to stay lovingly and compassionately engaged while managing good boundaries and clear expectations. It offers good insight into how & why people change and how & why they get stuck. I like it a lot. It takes the simple premise that we are most effective in shaping behavior when we acknowledge & reward movement towards the behaviors we want to see & refines it in a way that makes sense for adults. It also reinforces the idea that people are complex, and when we can remember & enjoy their strengths (something that can be pretty hard to do when your kid seems to be set on making careless or confusing choices), we help them to remember & draw on those strengths themselves. It's helped me to feel more optimistic...though, like with many experiences with uncertain outcomes, I need to work at it. It's really not just about addiction, though that piece is certainly covered. Both personally & professionally (I work with kids and their families), it's helped me to feel like I have more power to effect a positive outcome, and given me some good tools. Perhaps you might find it helpful, as well? Solo parenting. <sigh> Not for the faint of heart. Maybe we should start a support group of our own, seems like there are quite a few of us!

Well, no, in fact, I don't think that's at all accurate. Donna, I think that you've gotten some very wise advice. I do agree that it makes sense to encourage her/him/them to go slowly, and to remember to take a deep breath yourself before reacting. And if it seems helpful, I can point you to some good local parent support resources. And if nothing else - as the mother of a similarly aged young adult in a notoriously progressive liberal arts college - I love a good discussion on gender as a social construct . Feel free to shoot me a text or send a pm. Hang in there! Someday we will look back on these days and feel proud of ourselves for meeting the challenges of parenting with honesty and love, even if we're not always as graceful as we might hope to be. Big hugs, Kate

Ah, ArtLovingDad, I'm sorry that it all feels so hard right now. Being a single parent through widowhood is a terribly difficult task, even when parenthood is freely and joyfully chosen. And grief – especially in the early days (and from my perspective, those ‘early days’ might be best counted in years, btw) – can make even the easiest task seem like drudgery. Parenting is never really all that easy, or even always all that rewarding – except in some abstract sort of way. Little kids can be incredibly demanding, sometimes pretty damn boring, and require you to always put their basic needs first. <sigh> Parenting is hard work. Grieving? Also hard work. You don’t sound like you’re enjoying much of your life at all right now, so why would you be enjoying the extra demands that parenting brings? I’m wearing a few hats here as I comment: I’m a solo parent (widowed 8+ years with a 20 year old son; he was 11 when his dad died) who was raised by a single mom (after my dad died when I was 9) and am a practicing psychotherapist who works with children and families. And I gotta tell you, the value of a well-balanced, complete meal is probably not worth as much as you might imagine . (Clean houses, routines, etc, also can be pretty highly over-rated; really gotta just figure out what works for your little family.) Good parents come in all stripes and varieties, and no one parent is great at the job over an entire childhood. Those parents who excel at parenting infants may suck at being with adolescents, and a 6 year old is certainly not everyone’s cup of tea. You’ve got a lot of time yet to hit your stride and to grow with your child into a mutually satisfying, rewarding relationship. In the meantime, being kept safe, dry and fed, with a moderate amount of good-enough parenting is probably just fine. Foster some key supplemental supportive relationships (well chosen nannies, sitters, friends & neighbors who like kids, scout troop leaders, extended family members, teachers, etc) and they, too, can help to create that safe and loving network that help children to thrive. It does take a village, and for a widowed parent, that village is even more critical. And I hope that you’ll give your own relationship with your son a chance, keeping open the possibility that he might just be someone who – independent of your responsibility for him – may be, or may grow into, someone who you can really enjoy. Both as a one half of a couple and as a solo mom, I’ve found parenting to have moments of unmitigated joy as often as moments of frustration, tedium, fear, and exhaustion. And honestly? I think that I’m a pretty good parent. Don’t let anyone try to sell you on the idea that being a good parent requires you to be unwavering or unambivalent in your commitment; that’s just wrong. One caveat, though, as the child of a mom who became pretty depressed for quite some time after my dad died: if it feels like your grief is sliding towards depression (and sometimes it does), both of you will benefit from you taking the time to address that with a professional. And even if it’s not, having an unbiased listening ear can help. Hope that today does hold some peace and time to take care of just you.

I'm in, but will require a reminder (or 3) before then. I have trouble planning for next week, let alone October!

"Do these flashbacks ever go away? Or at least lessen in intensity?" Speaking as both a widow, and a trauma therapist, the best answer I can offer is: usually, but sometimes we might need a little help. My suspicion, from both my own experience and the experiences that others have shared here, is that we process traumatic experiences episodically, and it's not always clear why the thoughts get triggered or reappear. I think it can be helpful to know what elicits the response, in the event that it's avoidable or can be minimized, but I'm not sure that we always know. Might it be because of news reports of similar incidents, or anniversary dates? Sure. Is there a lot we can do to avoid that? Not really. Having good strategies to take care of ourselves when these periods occur - seeking more (or less) support from friends and family, napping more, finding (healthy) diversions and distractions, or setting aside short blocks of time to explore and process our feelings can all be helpful. Sometimes just having someone who knows that you're struggling can really help. (I had a friend who was on speed dial, day or night, and while I never needed to call, it was great to know that I could.) However, if it persists without seeming to improve, or gets worse, or you feel like it impacts your ability to take care of yourself or others that depend on you, finding support is a good idea. I had a therapist who was very kind, and I only saw him when I really felt like I needed some extra help. There are lots of good, simple therapeutic interventions out there, that if you feel the need, can really help.

Great title for a post! "Name that emotion" always seems like a pretty popular game in my house . I do remember having very similar feelings right around the post-1 year mark (as well as post year 2, and maybe a bit still at year 3) , and I suspect that it might be a combination of both fatigue and disappointment. We work very hard to make it from milestone to milestone, only to find that after the anniversary has passed, nothing has really changed. In the big picture, sure; we can reflect on the difference in how we felt a year ago relative to how we feel now, but 11 months relative to 1 year 1 month? Not so much. And dammit, we made it this far! Where's our reward? I think it's common to feel restless and irritable when we're still tired from having gotten to where we are now, and we recognize that where we are isn't where we want to stay in the long run. And in the long run? Those uncomfortable feelings will be the thing that motives positive change, but right now? Yuck. :-\ I wonder if it can be likened to reaching another level of base camp on the journey, maybe we could benefit from taking some time to sort through the backpack, clean out the debris, freshen up the resources, and just rest. You got this far, maybe you could take some time to applaud your progress (as ambiguous or fleeting as it might sometimes seem) before you contemplate stepping back onto the trail. From much further down the road (8 years in November), I'd like to reflect that it still is early days yet. And while the work to mentally reorganize and recalibrate is all very difficult in the beginning, the changes you need to process (actively/passively) to get from year 1 to 2 are uniquely challenging. ((Big hugs)) to all of you, and hopes that you can see your progress for the accomplishment that it is. In the meantime, stealing a quote from fellow YWBBer Ann E., be gentle with yourself...

When my late husband and I were first together, I lived in a house in the middle of a 15 acre orchard. The property was surrounded by woods and the nearest neighbor was a very quiet, private golf club. My bedroom was on the second floor, and one wall was filled with windows that looked out over the top of the apple trees. On clear nights, especially when there was a full moon, you could look out through the leaves tipped with silver and watch the resident herd of deer forage for dinner. It was lovely. I remember the first night that we spent together, lying in bed in his arms, looking out at the winter night. The Geminids were fully in their glory, and the sky was filled with shooting stars. I dreamt of those stars, and woke with the certainty that I would love him forever, and that one day, we would have a child together. I do, we did?and it surprised me, for I am not a woman who believes in prescience. Many years later, again early in December, we woke our little boy in the middle of the night and took him out to watch the shooting stars. Wrapped in a blanket, tucked in between us, we told him the story of how we dreamed of the life that we came to have. It?s been seven and a half years since my beloved had to leave us, and that little boy is about to be a college sophomore. In that time, despite our loss, there has been much to be grateful for. We know that life can be good again. The last couple of years, however, have been pretty bumpy; there?ve been significant, unexpected losses, surprising challenges, and far too many tedious and tiring demands. I?m not happy, and it?s not surprising. I?ve lost two dear friends in less than a year, and grief ? different certainly, but oh, so evocative ? sits with me like a shadow. I?m not patient with grief, I?m not tolerant of sadness; I would like it to be gone. A few days ago, at that odd moment between the last night and the next morning, I sat on my deck and looked up at the sky. It was too cloudy here to see the Perseids, and truly, it was a day before they were expected to peak. There were no shooting stars in sight, but the night was very busy and quiet, in the way that only a late summer night can be. It occurred to me, as I sat there, that those shooting stars were still there?on their swift and fiery journey?even if, at that moment, I couldn?t see them. There?s a lesson in that, one that I?ve yet to fully absorb. The last two nights have been clear, and I?ve seen some of the brightest, most brilliant shooting stars that I?ve ever seen. Last night, that small boy, now a young man, lay on the grass with me at the top of a hill in a very dark park, as we struggled to stay awake to watch the show. As I watched him, looking so intently at the sky, I realized that the world is still filled with much to be grateful for, even if, at the moment for me, it is merely a glimmer on the horizon. So this evening, with yet another clear night expected, I?ll sit with friends as the light wanes, and we?ll count the shooting stars as they travel across the sky. I, though, will be working very hard to also count my blessings?.

Of course. Think of how dull life would be without them!

Why? Because he's 18 and about to graduate in a month. My friend, as the mother of a 19 year old son, I feel your pain. Here's to hoping (for both of us), that it gets better....soon.

Early last September, I lost one of my dearest friends to suicide. She was the friend who stood by my side at the ER the morning my husband died, held my hand as we walked into his memorial service, and propped herself up at the end of my bed - any number of times in the following months - with a text book and a laptop, so I would feel safe and finally sleep. In many ways, she knew me better than anyone other than my late husband. Like me, she was a clinician who worked with kids who?ve experienced trauma; we met when she interned for me 12 years ago at a clinic for children who are victims of physical and sexual abuse. It?s not work for the faint of heart; vicarious traumatization ? taking on the experience of those you work with ? is a real concern, especially for those, like my friend, who carry their own trauma history with them. Her struggle began last spring, with a depression that involved a long hospitalization and every treatment that could be attempted. She lost her job, her child, her partner?hope. We spent the morning together the day before she died; we talked about how hard it was to keep trying, and why she needed to. We talked about the risk of starting yet another medication ? which she had that day ? and we spoke very candidly about the risk of self-harm. But as a clinician, she knew the answers to give; they were plausible and I trusted them. She gave me a gift, I suppose; she made it very clear that there was nothing that I could have done to have stopped her. She died barely 24 hours later. I miss her. I miss her enormously. Two days ago I did a suicide assessment on the mom of a client with complex medical needs, the first that I?ve done since my dear friend?s death. I asked all of the right questions, she gave all of the right answers. I asked a co-worker, as I always do in cases like this, to be a second listener, and she agreed with our plan. The mom followed up with me the next day and was grateful for my support; I think she?ll be okay. But as I walked out of my office later that night, however, I realized that I wasn?t. I was feeling sad and fragile, and it was all wrapped up with a little ribbon of leftover fear. And this ? for those of you who are wondering how this is related to widowhood ? is when it became clear to me, yet again, how greatly my loss ? seven years later ? still impacts me. On those days when I long for comfort and safety, I miss my husband. I miss him, and him alone. The person who would have known without words what I needed, and would have given it freely and joyfully: strong shoulders, strong arms, a hand held out in the darkness. The sound of his heartbeat?oh, the sound of his heartbeat?the most soothing sound that I?ve ever known?and I will never hear it again. How hard that thought is to tolerate. Seven years later, and it?s no easier to bear. Seven years after his death and life is...well, it's life. It?s good, it?s trying, it?s full of opportunities. But on those days when I feel most uncertain?when my faith is shaken?when there's a wobble in my step...it might be seven years, but it still feels like yesterday.

I'm in. It'll be sort of an anniversary bago! The now infamous vineyard Bagos started right around this time of year 6 or 7 years ago. (I'm sure someone out there remembers which....)

I agree. Having no one to process with is tough, be it about something big or just the mundane details of life. I have good friends who always seem ready to listen, and good coworkers, too, who are often a great source of support. I work in a family mental health clinic, so I'm fortunate to have colleagues who are skilled listeners; it's a trauma clinic, so an irreverent sense of humor, thankfully, is a necessary part of the package. Since becoming a widow 7 years ago, though, I've lost a couple of other really significant relationships, and find myself feeling less willing to develop that kind of intimate connection that really nurtures trust. Probably not a good thing. I think that my reluctance gets amplified by my work. As a clinician, emotionally charged conversations are center stage, and while my piece of the equation is professional, on a daily basis I'm required to be present, mindful, and responsive to the person or people in front of me. And in general, I think that I do a pretty good job of it. But the problem is that therapy is ? as it should be ? a one way street; disclosure flows in just one direction. It?s created for me, I think, a conundrum. I am - as I think my friends would confirm - profoundly trustworthy, I'm just not terribly trusting. I spend so much time processing other people?s experiences, that I have little energy and enthusiasm for my own. I guess I?m feeling a little bit lopsided. I miss having that one trusted person who ?got me.? I miss being able to just spill without context, to share bits and pieces, often in a wildly strident and emotionally unstable sounding tirade. I?m tired of having to tell the whole story, of having to be rational and coherent in my delivery. I miss having someone who could read me ? correctly ? and knew when to nod, when to poke, and when to offer me open arms and solace. My late husband had an unerring ability to offer just what I needed. What I miss most, I think, was his ability to find the humor in the most sober of situations. He could take me from a stormy diatribe to laughter in seconds. I worry that I?m growing too used to parsing my topics, and choosing who to tell what. I?m afraid that I?ll never again have someone with whom I can share the ?whole catastrophe,? and perhaps even more concerning, that I'll stop imagining that it?s something worth trying to find.

Another who is glad to see you here! And I, too, have more than one quote of yours printed out and tacked up, right next to me, on my office wall. Thank you for all that you've shared. Kate

Ah, Fleur, I remember you, too! And I share your dilemma. Like you, I don't read or post much any more, and I'm far more likely to send a PM than share in the open forum. Yet when BSK shared the news that the board was shutting down, I felt bereft, disoriented, and sad. I've always thought of YWBB as a place, a virtual geographic space where I can go to find kindred souls, peers, my peeps; it's my 'hood . It made an enormous difference in how I grieved and what I imagined was possible in the future. I'm incredibly grateful for the wisdom and kindness that people have shared. I can't quite wrap my head around the thought that the record of that will be lost. And I'm with those who believe that a better solution should have been, and could have been, sought by the board. Scrolling through my history last weekend, figuring out what to save and what to abandon, was awful. Connecting again with those early, so fragile days, dredged up all sorts of painful feelings. And yet the signs of progress and growth were clear. I'd been a member of the board for almost 7 years; in that time I finished graduate school, started a new career, and found (and lost) a new love. My son went from elementary school to college. I lost one of my dearest friends to suicide. And the members of the board bore witness; shared in my sadness, tolerated my confusion, and applauded my success. Some of my closest friendships started there. A lot of old grief got recycled last weekend, but the news that some of our members pulled a rabbit out of the hat, that there were people with the skill and resources and willingness to create a new forum...wow! What an amazing thing! The wisdom, the resilience, the incredible kindness...here it is again! And people are recreating a whole new community of supportive... empathic... welcoming ... and sometimes irritatingly contentious and utterly human, kindred souls. How cool is that?!? Maybe those of us from a previous era, those of us who benefitted from what those before us shared, have a new role to play. If we step away now, even more of that collective knowledge gets lost...and that, I think, would be a terrible legacy. So I think I'm back, and here to stay - at least for a while - and hoping to help nurture another safe and sheltering space.