Mizpah

Breathe as well as you can. Get some sunshine whenever possible. And let yourself suffer - it's the only way through. It hurts so much. It won't always hurt so much. But it does right now, and we know.

Love your update/stream of consciousness. I hope it felt as good to get it out as I imagine it did while reading it. Life is strange. I'm glad you're seeing someone accepting and truly interested in you - I mean interested as in who you are, your thoughts and feelings, not (just) interested in dating you. (My widower boyfriend/babydaddy sometimes says that he feels many women want a partner just "as a handbag" - someone to drag along to social functions - sounds like she's not like that.) Kids are animals. Sounds like you're doing awesome, paper plates and all, hahaha. Cheers!

Thinking of you, Meg. Yes, life has gotten hard - that's an understatement. I used to say that we have to "bear the unbearable." Everything you said sounds totally normal to me, unfortunately. I wish I could say you're going to feel great soon, but you'd know I'm lying. I'm 4+ years out, and I barely remember the first 5-6 months, and that is a mercy! I died when he died, as you said, and we all of us have to rebuild a life from the ground up, but the first part of that rebuilding is all about just suffering, honestly. Feeling all the hopelessness and sadness (for us and for them) and loneliness, etc., all of it. It feels like you're stuck and sometimes you might even think you're crazy, but it's exactly what you need to be doing: grieving and mourning. That is your life right now. And surviving as best you can. You knew you needed help, you knew you needed the solidarity of others who have and/or are surviving it - these are healthy impulses. Disregard everything people say that doesn't sit well with you - just reject it. Really, at this point, other people do not matter. Right now it's ok to be selfish. It's necessary even, to a certain extent. There are going to be lots and lots of offensive comments, observations, questions, statements. But also, when you find little pieces of wisdom or insight or hope or comfort in anything, take it! As for desperately trying not to forget, I don't know if it's something you'd want to do, but I wrote down bookfuls of memories. Nothing formal, no pressure, just random little snippets - what he loved, little private jokes, memories that only he and I shared, all the things about him that I could remember. I believe it really helped me at the time - I pulled out my tiny notebook whenever a thought crossed my mind, for the first couple years. And now I have these books, full of him. As for tips, it's totally different for each person. For me, being physically active was key. I ran, I worked out. I ate healthy and got lots of sleep (I know sleeping is hard for many widows, but never was for me). I tried to get as much daylight as I could, outside time. I spent lots of time walking, taking long long walks alone. I wrote a lot. I read a ton (I couldn't handle anything but books that were as sad as I was, so I only read about grief, widows, and the Holocaust - everything else seemed too happy and frivolous and upset me). I put no pressure on myself to rush through sadness or to reengage in life until I felt like it. Lots and lots of therapy. I lost lots of friends, but became closer with ones who didn't make me feel worse. I did lots of things in DH's honor, from buying a memorial bench to planting a garden in the shape of a heart to reading books about the things he cared about to traveling to the place where he was born. I went to synagogue weekly, even though I don't believe in Gd, because it was comforting and to say the mourner's prayer for him. I wrote and read a ton on this forum (well, its precursor, but the same thing), and became great friends with great people on my same timeline. I didn't want time to pass because I didn't want to be further from him. I didn't want to feel better, not even a tiny bit, yet I couldn't handle how much despair I felt. I didn't want to be living life if he couldn't (and I don't mean I was suicidal, I just mean I didn't want to do anything but miss him and wish that what had occurred hadn't occurred). I didn't think I could survive the pain, it was physical even, I could feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in my heart. I knew his face as well as I knew my own. I'd look at the bed and imagine him lying in it, sleeping peacefully the night before he died, and think about how impossible it was to conceive of his non-existence. I didn't think I would ever be ok again. I didn't want anyone to touch me, because I wanted him to be the last one who touched me. I didn't think I'd ever feel feelings again, and certainly never love anyone. I got upset when people said they missed me, because they had no idea what it was to truly miss someone. We get it. We all get it. Thinking of you. Wishing you moments of comfort and solace.

Oh no! Yikes! Sounds like maybe that girl who fished you out of the bushes is your best bet for a new ICE, instead of these men! Glad your ex was kind and concerned. I hope this doesn't open up a new phase of re-opening the wound. Breakups are detoxes, and being in contact makes it so hard. The worst and the best all in one. I'm sorry NG is such a fool/unconcerned jerk. Sounds like your assessment of merely using him as a distraction to get over the ex is a good one. Glad you're not getting attached - he doesn't sound worth it. DH's advice to people with (certain kinds of) relationship issues: "Next!" Are you ok???

OMG what?! Disgusting. How do these people live with themselves?! I'm horrified. Good for you for saying good riddance. I'm so sorry.

You're jealous. It's ok. It's natural. It makes us feel ugly things. You see all you've lost and that you're coping better and more appreciative than someone who has everything you wish you had. It's good to get it out. We get it.

No. No, don't be hesitant. We all think of you, clearly. I know I do. And no, it's not non-important in the widow world. The widow world is about the specific one we lost, but it's also about the loss of that safe place, that person, our ally, our haven from the world. You lost that, then you were given false, horribly disappointing hope that you'd found it again. The widow(er) support alliance/emotional safety net is here for exactly this purpose - when we don't have that person and really need support. You're amazing for being so honest, for being strong enough to resist his attempts, to break free, to start over, to start to recover, to share it with us. It's inspiring. For me, one of the hardest things about relationships after widowhood is that, with DH dying, at least I had the comfort of knowing he loved me so much and would've done anything to take care of me. In relationships now, instead of being strong and independent and resilient as I thought I would be, instead, the slightest hurts and rejections feel massive and traumatizing, I think because it opens the door to what I lost in losing DH and our (too perfect!) relationship. So I can't imagine how soul-shocking what you've gone through must be. I'm thinking of you often, and cheering you on. I wish you didn't have to be so strong and brave.

I call it lost years. I feel like I'm living again, but I definitely feel like I lost two or three years of my life.

Yes. I call it being chemically possessed. Everything is dark(er) for a few days, and each month I forget to remember that it's not me, it's the chemicals. Then they subside and I'm like, "Oh, I'm not psychotic after all."

I agree with the others. The shock protects you in the beginning. You live in a haze, you're like a strange, sickened automaton. Now, you are returning to yourself, waking up a bit. Reality is setting in, and you are seeing this really is permanent. Perhaps the abundant support of the beginning has faded a bit. And you are right - time is taking you further from the last time he was with you, and you'd prefer time go back. People say so much that grief isn't linear, and it's so true. It's not logical. It's not a process of consistent betterment. The only simple thing about it is that it is hard. It's still very early out. Don't put the pressure of expectation on yourself. I would say expect to feel bad, and if you have any moments of respite, take them. We're here for you.

My boyfriend and I sleep in my bed, the bed I shared with DH, in his house, the house he shared with his late fiancee. The bed doesn't trouble me. The house does. But that's me - I've always lived in my head and in my imagination, so I constantly imagine her, or I imagine their life together there. He seems to be just fine about the bed, and about the house - he told me, in response to my saying I feel like I live in *her* house, that he owned it and lived there for years before they got together.... So much of this stuff is "just" in our heads. But to a large extent we live in our heads, huh? Argh. F widowhood!

The former happened to me. I won't lie - there's definitely something easy about being able to say, "It just happened!" Like you had no part in it. But I *did* have a part in it. If I wasn't actively looking, inside I wanted connection and love and affection, and was happy and relieved. One of my closest widow friends did the latter - she wanted a boyfriend, she wanted a husband, she wanted children. And she didn't wait around just hoping it would happen to/for her. She didn't live on anyone's timeline but her own. She's one of the people I admire most. I'm sure many would say she took everything way too fast. But she didn't - not for her. She knew what she wanted, she knew what she needed, and she participated in her own life to make it happen. I look at it like this. Widowhood chose you. You don't have to choose loneliness because we think that others and widowhood says you "should." F that. IMHO.

I understand what you're saying, but I think it's an emotional threat. The thought is, "Look at this person. Look how much my loved one loved him/her. Look how much my loved one still does and always will love him/her." I suppose at heart it's a feeling that, if life had gone as the loved one wanted it to, they would still be together. It's the feeling that they prefer their lost loved one - maybe right, maybe wrong, maybe just impossible and pointless to ever assess, like the post/thread about the dream about having to choose DH/DW or your Chapter Two. It's that little girl or boy inside each one of us that just wants to be loved and can't help but think: "He/she loved her/him more." I'm not saying that it's not dumb and counterproductive and possibly immature. But it's a feeling that bubbles up. (It's hypocritical of me to feel this way. I have a tattoo of DH's name on me. I always think, if my partner happened to be jealous, "Well, his name may be on my body, but his body's in the ground and you have my body." But, like I said, it's the emotional/love aspect of it.)

Oh my gosh, for sure. I wish the logic of things could seep from my brain into my heart! And definitely agree - the conversation is key. And it's horrible of me, because I certainly do not want your girlfriend to be hurting and suffering, but honestly it makes me feel a tad better knowing I'm not the only one out there who has these thoughts and feelings. Lots of love to her (it takes courage to be with a widow(er)!) and to you. So glad you brought this up. Edited to say: if it's appropriate and you think it would help, feel free to tell her even widows have these feelings

Weather affects my everything. We're creatures. We've become overly civilized in a lot of ways, so that we're actually surprised and confused when we realize that things like weather affect us so strongly. But it makes total sense.

I understand your struggle. I couldn't deal with even the thought of dating until about 14 months out, and even that far out, I was terrified someone would find out and think I didn't love DH, which is ludicrous. Some of my widow friends started relationships or FWB situations, etc., very early out, and some had guilt and some didn't, some were judged, some weren't. My boyfriend is a widower, and he had casual relations with some women very, very early out. When we met, it moved very fast, and I was pregnant within a year of him losing his fiancee. (I was about 2 1/2 years out.) There is no question in my mind that he loved her. I've said often to my widow friends that there is nothing that occurs after their death that changes or can change anything of any importance: the truth of the relationship (which of course only occurred before they died). Look, we are sexual beings. We are "partnering" beings. And our society is, in such large part, "built for" couples. It's hard to be alone, and widowhood is such an intensely lonely, alone thing. Looking for someone to spend time, mind and body with does not in any way diminish the love you had for your wife. And the distinction between accepting something that comes your way and seeking it out - I mean, I know what you're saying, but I think mostly it's a "distinction without a difference." We're widows - we're not saintly ascetics. I don't see any virtue in denying ourselves the things humans crave. It's not a replacement. It reminds me of the early days, when I used to say that if DH couldn't eat, I was not going to eat. The logic makes sense, but only in that widow way that doesn't actually make sense for people who are in the land of the living. It's ok to leave the land of the dead and be in the land of the living. So, as for the crossing a line, my vote: you're TOTALLY allowed to do this as a widow.

Nothing is ever simple. When I read this, I immediately had two very strong, and diametrically opposed (hahaha), opinions. The first was, "Yikes, it's not even close to the same thing, that's f'ed up, I would not be able to be with someone like that." The other was, "Maybe it's worse (for us to have photos of them - worse for our partners' emotions), because we didn't choose to end it, we would still be with them if they were alive, and this poor woman feels like she's living in another woman's shadow." It sounds like your girlfriend has some insecurities that go deeper than just photos and need to be fully addressed. I would like to say I'm super zen and that being widows helps my boyfriend and I understand each other, but I'm sad to say that that's not how it went. My boyfriend has said things like it's hard to measure up when I have a box full of love letters, and I know that I have come to view his late fiancee as this perfect wonderful ray of sunshine and just the thought of her makes me feel like a failure and a dark cloud. (I know people are going to think we or one of us have low self-esteem or insecurities, etc., but we're fairly confident people, and are committed to each other, so I think in this case the cliche/common wisdom doesn't hold true - I think we were just each in relationships that were perfect for us, with people who were perfect for us, and we're each intimidated by the other's past, because our relationship is not smooth and breezy - it's a perfect of example of a prior relationship that was too good being a real challenge in a very realistic, full-of-life-circumstances present.) We had pictures up (he because he's lazy and we live in his house and he never made any active decisions about what to do, and I because I moved in and didn't want photos of her up and none of DH), but then I slowly put up photos of our family, and as "our people" became more of a point of division rather than unity, I took them down. There are two boxes upstairs next to each other, one labeled with her name and one labeled with his. It's not an effort to erase the past, but it can cause hurt and insecurity for a partner to always see a happy past with someone else in their home and in their face. To me, there's nothing easy about widowhood, nothing - this included. (Important to note: DH and I didn't yet have kids, and neither did boyfriend and his late fiancee. I think this would all be different if either of us had kids with a late partner - probably because we'd be forced to be more mature and less threatened about it all, and would want to incorporate the late parent's memory into the kids' lives.)

It is in death that we know that that cliche is absolutely true: the small things are the big things. Don't shortchange yourself. The emotional toll of these big firsts - big meaning meaningful to you and in the context of your relationship - it's huge. It takes strength and courage. The gratitude and clarity you speak of pay great tribute to him and his memory, and the love you two shared, and he would be so proud of you. It is just so hard. It's that simple. Thinking of you.

I don't have guilt - at least not consciously/straightforwardly (a word?). But I've had strange dreams. My boyfriend is a widower - and the father of my only child. My relationship with DH was extraordinary - superhappy, superhealthy, glowing, we were obsessed with each other and madly in love, inseparable, inspired by each other, we changed each other's lives vastly for the better and brought out our best selves. My relationship with my boyfriend is not as easy, not even close, but that's not to say I love him less. When I was pregnant and when our daughter was a newborn, I'd often have dreams of coming home and expecting BabyDaddy, but DH would be there holding the baby or sitting in a chair watching her sleep. And I'd be trying to think of how to tell him that he's dead and it's not his daughter. There was the strangest emotional aspect. At the same moment in the dream, I'd be 100% overjoyed that DH was back but also 100% wondering where BabyDaddy was and wanting him there. (Yes, that's more like 50/50, huh? Hahahahaha.) In one dream, BabyDaddy got home just after me and he was excited and relieved to find DH and was like, "See? He's back. I'm gonna go now!," and he started packing his things. It's so hard to put it on yourself as a "choice." There is no choice. It's a self-torturing hypothetical. We didn't want them to die. We didn't want to have to rebuild and repopulate a life. But we did have to, and we did. Because they're gone and only because they're gone. What would we choose? That choice would be another loss. Widowhood = the gift that keeps on giving! The eternal mindf**k. I know some people hate the word "victim," but I don't attach any point of shame or indignation to it. I don't feel guilty, because DH and I were both a victim of the accident that killed him. Maybe it sounds self-absorbed to say that, when he lost his life and I still have mine. But I lost him, and he was my life. I don't feel guilty - I feel we were victimized by life, and I don't feel guilty for doing what I can to make the rest of my life bearable, and maybe even happy.

The first widower I met after DH died was about 15 years out. In one of our conversations, he told me that he doesn't talk about it or let himself hurt or think/feel about it anymore, except once a year on the date. He said on that date, he takes time alone and "opens up that box," not a physical box, but allows himself the sadness and the thoughts and memories. Not the same exact thing, but your post reminded me of the things he said. In the beginning, we live inside that box. Now sometimes we let ourselves open it, or it opens itself and pulls us near. I'm thinking of you.

I was alone for the first time around a month out. The second the door closed, I found myself (to my surprise) sobbing and saying over and over, "I'm sorry." I'm not one to talk to myself and I don't believe in an afterlife of any kind, so it made no sense to me, but I was apologizing uncontrollably and repeatedly to him, because he lost his life. Though you must FEEL sick inside and overcome, you sound calm and right-minded. I think he would be proud already. I can relate to you very well, because our 3-year anniversary was just a couple days after he died (he's now been dead longer than we were together). Imagining getting through the years without him, anniversaries, etc., it's unimaginable. Moment by moment, that's my advice. Try not to look TOO far into the future, it will feel very overwhelming, as it should at this point. I believe you will one day be able to appreciate it, and even to celebrate it. I say that, even with what happened, I will always be the luckiest woman alive, because he loved ME and he chose ME. I think the same is true for you.

I went to Helene Bass-Wichelhaus, on East 86th between Lexington and Park (accessible by 4/5/6 train and by cross-town 86th St. bus) for YEARS. In the immediate death aftermath, I went twice a week. While seeing her, post-widowhood, I got pregnant by long distance widower boyfriend and moved upstate. I would never have left her otherwise. She's great - psychotherapy and psychoanalysis and well-acquainted with grief issues, even if I was her only patient with it (OMG poor woman, having to listen to me!). Highly recommend. Edited to add 2 things: please feel free to PM me if you'd like. Edited again to add: I'm so jealous that you've moved TO Manhattan and not away from it, like me!

Argh. My post was about the words/message of her ARTICLE, not her experience of early widowhood and the luxuries she enjoyed vs. anyone else's harder time. My whole point got totally lost.

You feel crazy but your reaction sounds totally normal to me. It's the situation that is crazy and not normal. Sudden death here too, and even though I wasn't in denial, every time I "remembered" (I don't even know what I mean by that, because I was saturated in it at every second), I would get a jolt of nausea and shaking and internal panic. I don't know how far out you are, but the feelings and behavior you describe sound totally understandable. You don't know how to function, but the ability will return gradually over time. My best advice is not to allow yourself to live in denial, you will stunt your healing - but this is only my opinion, and I'm sure there are some who avoided thinking until they were less raw and stronger to be able to face it. I'm so sorry for this nightmarish reality you've been thrown into. You are, unfortunately, in good company - brave, resilient people who have suffered the unbearable and have so much compassion and love for you and who are here for you, to walk next to you and ahead of you.

Sometimes it just happens. Randomly, or for actual reasons we can't figure out. The changing of seasons always makes me nostalgic and melancholy, in general, even before DH's death, especially the end of summer ushering in autumn. I'm thinking of you.