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So sweet. Sometimes it is the little things, done with love, that mean the most.

Best wishes to you too Helen and thanks for the post. Although I did recently have to buy a new washing machine, my home is warm and dry. Counting my blessings both large and small. Cheers! and hoping 2016 is better for all of us.

I prefer to grieve on the floor beneath a table or outside stretched upon the ground. But, well-intentioned friends come with pleas for me to see a counselor and eat dinner at their homes. Begging I do something, anything, not understanding I am tired and need to be inactive. I want to sink beneath the tables, lie in the dirt, drink until morning, and grieve until the loss evolves slowly into a timid strength. Alcohol that is not usually kept in the house because I will impulsively drink every drop, now whispers greetings for me to enter those dangerous zones of long lost spirits. And friends will call and display horror, disgust when asking, ?Have you been drinking?? Powerless, they sigh, ?Oh no.? Never understanding how that despair and wine are so painfully short-lived, nor how comforting it is to let my tears fall while driving along that hard paved road. Copyright ? 2001 by Diane Payne. All rights reserved.

Like Water It hadn?t been three months since he had died when we sat together in your living room, a green world going on outside, the June wind blowing hot and hard, bending each leaf and branch, while inside all was still: a still interior where three women sat in shadow stirring summer drinks, the room the same as it had always been, but changed, his absence palpable. You said, ?I thought I?d gradually miss him less, the way a craving for a cigarette lessens a little after weeks of going without. It?s not like that.? You paused, drawing in a breath. ?It?s like a thirst that deepens as each day passes. Like water,? you finally said. ?I want him back the way I want a drink of water.? (Elizabeth Spires)

Nice. Thanks for sharing.

Thanks for sharing. Great article. That type of thinking just pisses me off. I was growing when my husband was alive. I'm still growing, but it was a lot more enjoyable when he was alive.

This:

I lost friends and gained friends. Although it really hurt to lose some of the people I considered good friends, I now see it as part of life. You get married and some of your single friends fall by the wayside. You just don?t have that much in common anymore. You have kids and you end up being friends with other people that have kids. If you get divorced, you end up relating to others that are divorced. You have something in common. You are widowed and you don?t really fit in the world of couples anymore. Except for those special people that always liked you for who you are and not because you were part of a couple that fit into their life. With that being said, I now have new and old friends. Single, married, divorced, never married, widowed. The end result of all the shuffling around of my friends is that I lost people that were friends because life threw us together but I held on to and gained friends that like me because of who I am. Not friends that were only friends because we were going through the same thing at the same time. The best advice I can give you is to open yourself up to new people. Your life isn?t the same anymore. Yes, it sucks. We didn?t ask for this but this is where we are. I feel as if I have weeded out the people that didn?t matter anyway. I?m better off for it. I?m going for quality over quantity.

YES!! This makes so much sense to me. For years it seemed as if he had just died yesterday. Eventually time started passing again but I felt so disoriented. Years had passed that I had missed. Life seemed to have moved on but I wasn?t aware of it until years later. And I still have no idea how I have gotten this old! It?s as if a large piece of my life was removed and I?ve woken up somewhere unfamiliar. In my case, I think ?no?. Or at least it didn?t impact me in a negative way. I needed that time to heal. Even though I lost a lot of years, I used that lost time to become who I now am. I couldn?t live in the ?real world? until I was ready to do it. Me too. But I made a conscious decision to allow myself whatever time it took. In my case, it took a long time. I am not happy that so much of my life (after Jim) was lost. But there didn?t seem to be any other option and I think I will always be a little out of step with the real world. I?m OK with that but it is disorienting.

I just want to say that I am so sorry. Sometimes the only thing that makes sense is to get toxic people out of your life. Just really sad that the toxic people are your family. ((hugs))

((Hugs)) "That" day so often can take on a life of its own.

I'm not sure if this is comforting or not, but someone posted it here at one time, and I thought it was helpful. http://www.rebellesociety.com/2013/12/18/5-lies-you-were-told-about-grief/ I think we as widows think the goal is to recover, or get over it, or move on to another place. But maybe the answer is to accept that it doesn't go away. Both the blessing and the curse. From my perspective, 17 months was just trying to live through each day. And those long time widows would say "just wait" it gets better. I thought " how long do I have to wait?" Now I am one of those long time widows saying "just wait". I know that is an inadequate answer but I guess it's one of those things that you can't explain. It never ends. You just incorporate it into your life, and maybe that sounds horrible but it isn't. It just takes so much longer than we imagine, but someday you can see it. Maybe just a glimmer at first. But eventually you realize that although you thought you wouldn't make it one year, and two years and five years, you do. You not only make it, but you make something of it. A new life. But not one where you have to let your husband go. One where he comes with you. The hole is always there but you learn to walk around it. And your new life is a good life. And as Winnie The Pooh says: ?If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.? ― A.A. Milne

?If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.? ― A.A. Milne

Sometimes when I?m feeling a little restless, a little melancholy, a little lost, I?ll do a load of laundry. Yes, I will repeat that. *LOL* I will do a load of laundry to cheer myself up. This has been in the back of my mind the past few years. The realization that when there is a sunny breezy day (especially the kind of day with a wind that is likely to blow some dog hair off of the clothing hanging on the line) doing a load or two of laundry and hanging it on the line seems to improve my mood. Doing the laundry is one of those endless chores. Wash, Dry, Put Away, Wear, Wash, Dry, Put Away, Wear, Wash . . . It?s not that I ever thought ?I hate doing laundry?. I never actually thought about it one way or the other. You want to have clean clothing, you do the laundry. The putting away part was often lagging behind the washing part. Sometimes instead of making it into a drawer, the clean clothes sat in a laundry basket until I needed to wear them. But sooner or later, one way or the other, the laundry got done. On and off I?ve wondered about my newfound love of doing the laundry. Today I figured it out. It is an ordinary thing. A thing that needs done. A thing I used to do. Still do. And I guess the whole purpose of this post is to say that I have realized that if he would just come back, I would not only do the laundry, but I?d get it put away. I?d even iron his underwear if he wanted me to. I?d bleach and I?d pretreat stains and I?d make sure my fabric softener put a smile on his face. I?d be thrilled to do his laundry. Really. Just give me another chance sweetie. I?ve been practicing. Instead of dying, come look at these clean clothes. Doesn?t that make you wish you were here? Disclaimer: this is not a serious post. At least I don?t think it is. He has been dead 9 years. I have kept on doing laundry for those 9 years. I really don?t think it will make a difference one way or the other. But just in case, I am ready with a smile on my face when faced with laundry. Come on home honey. Your clothes are so clean. LOL

If I try, I could see manipulative, controlling, red flags. But I?m not trying, so mostly I see how difficult it would be to date a widow/widower. Especially if you weren?t widowed. I can see someone wondering why you come back to this place where you went when you husband died and you were hurting and falling apart wanted nothing more than for him to come back. How can anyone understand unless we tell them? Even then, I?m not sure everyone could understand. But you don?t know until you try. I have never dated since my husband died (9 years ago) so I sure don?t speak from experience. But I would hope that if I found someone new, he would be able to understand that there are connections here. I would hope that he would be able to understand that a dead husband doesn?t just disappear. We don?t get to wipe him out of our life as if he never existed. I know that if someone told me that I shouldn?t be here I would not take that well. But he didn?t tell you that. He doesn?t understand. So explain it.

Wow! This should be on a sticky thread. Thanks for sharing. Such a validation for the newly widowed when confronted with being told how we should feel.

LOL I love it! Isn't it great when we get to the place where the memories can make us smile? Thanks for sharing your memory.

Beautiful. Thank you for sharing your thoughts. I hope you found a multitude of blessings to count.

My husband has been dead for almost 9 years. I felt stuck for a long time. But from 9 years out, I can see that I really wasn?t. Maybe moving slowly but not stuck. I wish I could give you tips for getting unstuck but (although it sounds trite) sometimes it just takes time until you can see how far you have actually come. I think it may not be that we are stuck so much as we are impatient. Understandably impatient. Once we had a real life but when we are widowed we end up in some limbo land where we don?t really seem to fit anywhere. Time keeps moving but we live in two worlds: the world of the past and the world of the present. The future just seems to take so long to get here. Just some rambling thoughts.

Writing poetry gave me what little sanity I had during the first few years after his death. Death Watch I watched Death wait for you. I saw him in the yard, And around the corner, And peeking through the window. I would look him in the eye and stare him down, Then turn back to you with a smile. No sign on my face of who was lurking near our home. I became a woman to be reckoned with. I scared away the future. I kept us safe. This is what I did for you, This is what I would do again. When Death came through the door I had unlocked it. I swung it open wide, Said "come on in." I held your hand and talked of love. Tears could flow another day. I'd not allow my tears to cause you sorrow. I was a woman to be reckoned with. I faced the future. I left you go. This is what I did for you. This is what I would do again. Would you know me if you saw me now, Eyes ahead, feet in motion, Walking toward the unknown? I know you would. That is who you always saw. A woman to be reckoned with. A woman with a future. This is what you did for me. This is what you've always done. This is what you do. Poem On The Second Anniversary Of Your Death It's like picking a scab. Each time its almost healed I rub and scratch until the blood flows. I bleed for you. I bleed for me. Sometimes I just bump into things And knock it open. But mostly I pick at it. I have songs that can rip it open, I have photographs I hide away until I want to see what I have lost. And there is still that little seed of doubt that I was good enough for you. That seed I can plant and water with blood until it grows so tall I can not see the top. If the scab heals, all that's left is a scar. Scars can fade away. I would have died for you. I would have died with you. That would have been easy. The hard part is letting the scab heal and believing you won't fade away. Flying I sometimes told you that you saved my life. You would grin and make a joke. Or in a more serious mood say "No you saved your own life, I was just with you when you did it." I guess it was a little of both. But either way I am still here And you are not. My life was in your hands. I put it there and chose to keep it there. Hands that sheltered but never held too tight. Hands one could curl up in and feel safe. I am still here And you are not. I am the trapeze flyer without a net, The baby bird pushed out of the nest, The boat riding the rapids, heading for the waterfall. You are not here I am. The hands fell away but I can walk on air.

His name was Jim. Jim Smith. LOL An ordinary name. Not an ordinary man.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I?m not quite sure what to do with that anymore. It is really distressing to me that my dead husband is now 17 years younger than I am. When we started dating he was 8 years younger. I had a problem with the age difference. He didn?t. He said that the older we got, the less difference it would make. But then he died, and I just keep getting older. I understand that it is stupid to be angry about this. It?s not as if he had this planned. As if it was some scam he had planned. But each year takes me further away from him. If he came back ( OK, quit rolling your eyes) he would no longer be attracted to me. I am an old woman now. It?s just so strange.

I?m just glad that we got the whole ?box sex? thing explained. I think of myself as being rather liberal and I?m open to new things, but ?box sex? was new to me. ???

I also am glad to see you again. I have missed your insightful posts and often thought of you and hoped you were doing well.