Mizpah

Back before I moved to the middle of nowhere, I would go to the opera or the orchestra on my birthday, alone. And how funny is this? Each time, I just happened to have tickets next to elderly widowers who were also there alone. I suggest you do things that give you pleasure, even if it means doing them alone, even if it just means cleaning up (save the cleanup for the next day, it's your birthday!).

Maybe. But I think it's not black and white. There is a lot of grey area between forgiveness and poisonous grudge-holding. Honestly, personally, and it's not a popular stance I guess, but: I don't believe in forgiveness. I believe in moving past/beyond/away from people who are harmful, and leaving them behind. I feel no need to forgive them, BUT I also feel no need to get emotionally stuck on the hurt they caused or the actions they took. They're part of the past, and once the anger seeps away, slowly, gradually, they're just nothing to me, irrelevant. I don't like the pressure of having to feel benevolence toward abusers and @$$holes and bad friends.

I agree. I've said this on other posts, but this might be a "it's not me, it's you" thing. I met a guy that was logically, rationally NOT the one for me (and vice versa), including the fact that he lived far away (but that wasn't even the biggest challenge). But it didn't matter. And now we live together. For me personally, I had to feel alive myself again before I was ready to engage with men. I had to feel excited and interested in things in general. I traveled, I took classes, I started to love life again. And only then could I not feel "meh" about men. (Looking back, I feel bad for the one man I started seeing before I was ready.)

I'm sorry. I hope you find some way to celebrate yourself, even in the face of the loneliness.

I moved at five months (because I had to - couldn't afford our apartment without him). I changed jobs twice (first within my organization because an appropriate opportunity for upward movement arose, and then because I had to move far away - more on that in a moment). I got pregnant (not planned). I moved hundreds of miles (to be with the father, as I didn't want to raise the baby alone and we were in love). I changed jobs, bought a car, had a baby, left all of my friends behind. Totally new life, very challenging. Almost none of this was a result of planning or big decisions. I took things as they came. I agree that it's step-by-step. Most things aren't big decisions, but a bunch of gradual, little ones. Maybe you should just start looking at houses even if you don't know what you're looking for - you'll find out what you are and aren't looking for by looking at them. Do you have any friends or family members who also want to get healthy? It really helps to have a partner - increases accountability. Or get an app - myfitnesspal is great. Or keep a food and activity journal. Or get a fitbit. As for career - network? Talk to people who've changed careers, pick their brains? (As for what it took, perhaps insanity. Did I fear I was making the wrong decisions? Absolutely. I was always 50/50 on each one of them, and still am. And as for an advisor, I went to therapy weekly, and highly advise it to any and all people.)

Two words: grief porn.

Maybe your wish to believe is your belief in its embryonic or fetal stage (ah, metaphors). I know everything is different for everyone, but for me, I felt dead inside until year two and until I did something big for me (traveled alone to the Middle East - went to his birthplace and childhood home, was on vacation, was in sunshine all day every for a couple weeks (don't underestimate vitamin D), and sobbed at the Western Wall (I'm religious but not spiritual, hahaha, if that makes any sense to anyone). I don't know if it was the passage of time or the travel (that specific travel, not just traveling) or just that it was springtime, but it was about then that I felt alive again *for the first time*. I still feel this way, four years out. Big hugs to you.

Yes! In the beginning, I didn't feel that the sadness was survivable, that I Could Not live in a world without him. I didn't want to, and yet I have, and, like all of you, am doing a da&# good job! To us! We're bad@$$es.

I've always felt like guilt hasn't been part of my experience of it and always said I felt like we were BOTH victims of the accident that killed him. But the fact is that, while both of our lives as we knew them were ended, my life continued, albeit in an entirely different vein. I think even as I was saying I felt no guilt, it (or something like it) surfaced in my statements and behavior. For example, for the first three months, I ate barely anything. Out loud at first and then later in my head, I would say, "If he can't eat, I'm not going to eat." So I think even those who "don't feel guilty" (like me) actually somehow do in a different version.

It was the only thing I wanted to talk about and there was no one I wanted to talk about it with. Not in real life. Widows on YWBB, yes. At length. There was a big block for me in talking to others about it, and I'm not sure, looking back, what it was. There were only a couple people I could talk to in real life only - one had been my closest friend from babyhood, and the other had been going through fertility issues before DH died and I'd been her confidante. But mostly, it was YWBB. Hours of reading and writing, and I became extremely close friends with some people on my timeline, who I am still in daily contact with four years out. As for empathy and compassion. I find I am judgmental. How bad is that? It feels terrible to admit - terrible that it's true. When people come here and post constantly, I think it's awesome. When someone newly widowed gets on FB and posts constantly, I think it's awful. Why is this? There's this widow (not from here/YWBB) who always posts on FB and tries to share her life lessons from it - appreciate what you have, etc., etc. People can't learn other people's lessons, they learn their own. It annoys me. I lost more and more compassion for her with each preachy post. If she finds comfort that way, I should think, "Go for it." But I feel like there's no point in speaking to the general public about it. They don't get it, even the most compassionate empathetic (empathic? having a mind blank) people. They know our words and they know it's horrible, but they don't feel the depth and enormity of the devastation, they can't. We feel it in our guts and our souls. Maybe this is why we bristle at the pitying looks - they are looking in from the outside, while we are looking *across* at each other, next to each other, in the same place, even when we're further out.

I felt very much like this at around two years to two and a half years. He loved me very well, and I him, and my first two years were very very intense grief, total delving into it, and then I felt like I emerged and came to life again (I also was alone), and I felt almost euphoric. I had spent a lot of time trying to pay tribute to him, who he was, and I think that period was one of the best ways - loving life and loving being me, and still feeling so lucky that I had known the love we shared.

Yes yes yes yes yes

I hope you don't mind me coming over to this section (I'm 4 years out). I read your post and wanted to tell you that your feeling is totally normal. When I was at six months out, I was outside in autumn sunshine watching the NYC Marathon go by on the street, alone, and I noticed I was smiling. It shocked me. There was no meaning for me for a long, long time - honestly, I'm not sure there even is now. I said on another person's post that finding meaning in human existence is one of the loftiest, most ambitious goals a person can set for themselves. Maybe set your expectations lower. I spent the entire first year plus focusing on healthy habits - the tiny, tiny stuff of life. I tried to spend time outside, eat healthy, get exercise, read books, took long walks, I took part in rituals like weekly synagogue attendance (I clung to structure and routine), I felt proud of myself for things like regular apartment-cleaning and laundry and the stuff of routine, discipline, simple healthy living. I'd say recalibrate and don't hope for meaning - hope for solace instead. If you can. Things will fall into place later. I'd say, for now, grieve and keep things simple. (At about two years, I started to come alive again. Life-rebuilding takes time and comes in very gradual steps for most, like when you don't notice daily that you're losing or gaining weight because you see yourself every day, but when you compare at a year, you're shocked at the difference.)

Oh my gosh - not a failure! I can relate to being spread too thin - full-time attorney, an hour-plus commute one way, infant daughter. When I get home, it's go-go-go until 10pm and then there's still housework (and more professional work) to be done. It's exhausting, totally depleting. There is no time for recuperation of any kind. Your exhaustion is not a sign of failure - you're a superwoman forreal. It doesn't look like sexy capes, it looks like you and me at the end of one of these evenings. I keep saying, "When's the easy part?!" I'm thinking of you and sending encouragement.

Thank you to each one of you. I really appreciate your sharing and your thoughtfulness and honesty. I obviously have a lot to think about, daily. I do love him, too much! We are both very flawed and came with lots of grief (and, him, other/childhood) baggage, and instead of taking our time, jumped in to things that people only do very slowly, gradually, over years. I know we're both trying. Whether it's all enough to make a happy, healthy life together - I wish I had a crystal ball. I came into it thinking I was always right and self-aware, but through the hardship, I'm learning a lot about myself too, and trying to be a better me. Life! When's the easy part?! Thank you and love to each of you. You've given me a lot to think about, and I have a feeling I'll be rereading more than once!

I cannot even imagine what you are or will be going through. I wanted to respond, though, to tell you that when I lost my DH about 4 years ago I went onto YWBB (this site's former site), and made friends there I think I will have lifelong. Two of them were pregnant when their DHs died. Their daughters are healthy, happy, beautiful girls, and the mothers, though of course they struggle with sadness and other issues, are doing really well. I hope my sharing this will serve as hope and not further upset. I hope you find comfort and solace and joy in your beautiful new baby.

This might not be you not being cut out for relationships. This might be various red flags, specific to HIM. He may be a great guy, but a relationship is also about the kind of (shared) life the person offers you. Who needs extra work? No one. Not you. Who wants it? No one. (Also, I'm cracking up about the bus. Who has a bus?! Why?!) I really think this has a lot more to do with him than you. "It's not me, it's you."

So my relationship with DH was near-ideal. I only say near because it sounds like post-death rose-colored glasses to say ideal, but that's really what I mean, and I said it often when he was alive. We were obsessed with each other. My whole life previously, I'd always had this sense that life was happening elsewhere and I wanted to be there, that I was missing something (for example, if I was just in my living room with a boyfriend). With DH, it was the first time that I felt like there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be. I'd been obsessed with NYC my whole life, and with him, I didn't care where we moved, didn't care - wherever we were was the center. We were always laughing, always talking, always super open, always touching, reading together, cooking together, taking long walks together, we did everything together. We gushed about each other to anyone who would listen and it didn't even seem like anyone was annoyed by it (delusion maybe!). We were the couple that everyone envied and we'd often talk about how we felt bad for people who weren't us because "no one's in love like we are." Ok, fast forward: death, yada yada yada. I met widower baby daddy. Things were awesome at first. It was long distance. I was his support person. I didn't need anything from him. I just blew into town about once a month, with caring and support and fling sex and my distant fantasy world that he had no actual interest in (he hates NYC, it was my home and my love). He told me he was in love with me. I was infatuated - only person who made me feel feelings post-death. I liked him, respected him, liked how he liked me, had lust. Fast forward again: pregnancy, sudden cohabitation, major life transition for me (job change, city to country, no friends/total social isolation, pregnancy hormones, house, dogs, his young son, his grief, his depression, etc.). It has NOT been "a sexy walk in the park" (him). It has been ROUGH. It's been HARD. It's been emotionally painful, lonely. "But I love him." And we have a child together. And we were in love. We brought something out in each other, we couldn't get close enough, we smiled at/because of each other. We were great friends, we were passionate lovers. Sometimes I feel hopeful. Sometimes I feel hopeless. Sometimes I think it will improve over time. Sometimes I wonder if it can. Sometimes I know he loves me. Other times I think he never will. Sometimes I think I can live with the way things are, find comfort in the good times/aspects. Other times I think I need/want/deserve more/better. And here's my question: Has anyone been in a difficult relationship (either pre-death, with your lost love, or post-death) that, even though it was rocky, either improved or still was worth it? I'm not looking for, "Leave him!" (I might.) I guess I'm not really looking for, "Stay!," either. (I might. I want to. If I can.) I'm looking for thoughts and insights, experiences you think might have relevance, etc.

My therapist (psychoanalyst/psychotherapist) used to tell me this is an actual, true phenomena.

I think artists would also be pretty offended by this. Creativity and self-expression are mere coping mechanisms now?! Yuck. What would she call it if someone raised their hand and said they centered their career around grief? (Not that there's anything wrong with it, but through the lens of her own thinking - wow. Glass houses.) Don't give her a second thought. STERBS? She's an idiot.

Not nearly TMI in my book, and a beautiful reflection. Kind of reminds of when I had to move from our apartment, and scrawled love letters to him in pencil in the dark parts of the closet. That mattress IS a love letter to the intimate shared love/life (and lovelife! hahaha TMI). Hugs. [Editing to add: How's this for mattress TMI? My daughter was conceived on the mattress he shared with his late fiancee, and we now sleep on the mattress I shared with mine. #widowproblems]

Guilt? No. I've never felt guilt about any aspect of any of this. I feel like we were both cheated, both victims of the accident that took him. When I knew he was gone (before he was declared), I said to my mom, "My life is over." And it was. I don't feel guilty. I feel angry that I *had* to "move on" to be with anyone other than him, but not guilt. I saw only him, and would have for the rest of my life if his had been longer. Did things develop quicker than you thought they would? Um, yes. When I was 1 1/2 years out, I learned that the man working on my mom's apartment had lost his fiancee. I reached out (YWBB taught me to pay it forward, all its amazing support), and we texted for months. It never even crossed my mind that we would end up romantically involved in any way - it was pure grief support/cameraderie. Months later, when I was at 2 years and coming to life again, we met when I was visiting family. There was chemistry. I was shocked. I hadn't been attracted to anyone since death, and didn't think I would be. Infatuation. It seemed inevitable that we would come together. I traveled to the Middle East immediately afterwards, and we were in touch even then. When I returned, we started having what I thought was a fling. We saw each other only once a month, and by month three we were exclusive and talking about the future. I soon found out I was pregnant. I moved (from the heart of NYC to a super rural area) to be with him. Fast fast fast. Totally unforeseen. I thought I'd be single forever, with some flings and affairs, etc. I thought I would never feel anything for someone again, and I do. How did I know? It was visceral. Maybe it was lust and bad decision-making. We'll see.

I too am in a difficult post-death relationship. So what I looked for in your post was the "but," the hope that maybe things could improve "if ______." I don't see that. It seems you are saying that it is bad, you don't seem to be saying you believe it can or will get better. It's strange, because I feel two completely contradictory ways about stuff like this. On the one hand, no one knows the truth of a relationship but those two people. But on the other hand, it is often easier to see things clearly from the outside. It is hard, it is unbearable, to lose your family-ness once you've gotten it again after losing it. But it sounds like he's not offering family in the true sense of the word. When things are bad in my situation (different in many ways), my father always tells me that the baby and I ARE a family, maybe it's not what I wanted or expected, or how I thought it would or should look, but families can be made up in ways and LOOK different from what we expected. I know how hard it must be. The way you frame your post, the things you say - it seems you know what you need to do. Perhaps it's just a matter of timing at this point. I'm so sorry for your disappointment. It is a loss, another one after such a terrible one. I always say, "When's the easy part???!"

So yesterday was his yahrtzeit (the anniversary of his death according to the Jewish calendar). Four years. I wanted to spend the day reflecting on death and time and him, but the baby had been sick the night before and now I was (daycare - stomach virus - yuck). There were difficulties in my difficult relationship with emotionally challenged widower baby daddy, and then once things were more peaceful, turns out he's sick too. A deadline at work and no mental capacity from being sick, etc. Left work early to sleep off the daycare virus nausea, to wake to the rush of evening - feed the baby, bathe the baby, read to the baby, nurse the baby, quick conversations about health status and plans for tomorrow and the weekend. Strangely, the only moment I could really devote was a quick text to babydaddy: "He used to call me mish-mish (it means apricot in Hebrew). I swear I've heard him saying it in my head all day so far. In my head - I'm not so crazy as to think I actually hear him talking. I'm losing my f'ing mind. Gonna stop and grab a lobotomy on my way home." And his response (he never ever responds to my texts): "Babe, if you even think you hear him talking, like hearing his voice or feeling him around you, consider yourself lucky and call it an amazing day." A sweet surprise. A snippet of my life, contradictions and all. In my old life, pre-new-relationship and pre-baby, I'd have been sitting on a bench on the river in NYC staring at the water thinking or writing. I have little to no attention to give now. I miss it, my freedom and solitude. I'm grateful for what I have, but I wish I could pause time for a day and just really devote my attention to him, what he was, what we lost, what we had. But he loved life, so I suppose I pay tribute to him in the most honest way by living mine, in all its mundane details.

I know the feeling. We had the same sort of dynamic - treasured each other and always showed it. We always talked about how lucky we were. Too lucky? I don't believe in karma or anything really, but sometimes the thought of "is this my payment for how lucky we were?" crosses my mind. Are we allowed? Of course. I hope you will have it.