Tricia

Jen, I don't have any advice. And even if I did, I wouldn't assume you hadn't already considered it and tried it. I just have a selfish request. Please continue posting. Even though I've never met you, I consider you someone I "know." You're articulate and wise and kind and what you're feeling and experiencing is not out of the norm (whatever that means). It truly does suck. But know that you have people in your corner. You don't have to be happy-happy-sunshine for us. We get it. Just please be here. (Also, the world needs more of your good writing, whether it's here or in your journal or any other outlet. Words can wound, but they can heal, too.)

Sometimes I feel like we're all overthinking this life thing. Jen, you go to work, you take care of your kids, you are a good friend and family member to lots of people, and you are a darn good writer. And oh yeah, you're also grieving. You're kinda busy. Why then add the pressure of trying to also figure out the meaning of life? And why do people think that just because we've gone through this, we're the keepers of some profound wisdom? The fact that you are still here and you make the choice to be here day after day means that you do have hope, however faint. You have hope that it won't always be this hard, that this event will not define who you are as a person, that you will continue to give and receive love. The life you have made and maintained shows your hope.

Of course, @sunshinedaydreamz!

What I'm about to say might be unpopular, but here goes. I'm in complete agreement that everyone copes differently and some ways are healthier or more socially acceptable than others. Some help more than others. I get that. But! But! But! Cutting is a whole different matter. It's actively destructive and dangerous. I kind of think you wouldn't have included that detail if you didn't want someone to shout, "Hey! Don't do that to yourself. You deserve better. You deserve kindness from yourself because the world dang sure hasn't shown you much." So that's what I'm doing now. It's not a criticism, not judgement, just an affirmation that you deserve kindness, even from you. As to the "feeling like a loser" part, I think we've all felt that way. One thought that helped me was something I read here. I wish I could remember who said it because it really stuck with me. It was something along these lines: The person we were when our spouse or partner was here is gone. We can mourn for us, too. For that alternate universe us who will never exist again. But as long as we're rebuilding our lives, we get to make a lot of choices. Imagine your house burned down. That would be awful and tragic, but in the rebuilding process, maybe you'd get to pick some floors you always wanted or change the paint color in the bathroom. It wouldn't make up for your loss, you'd still want your old house back, but as long as you have no choice but to rebuild, at least rebuild in a way where you like what you end up with. That's oversimplified, but I think some of that applies to us, too. We have no choice but to go on. So we get to decide who we want to be. Want a new career? Maybe a change of location or scenery? Want to go back to school? Or disengage from social media? Those are huge steps, huge choices. But there are little ones, too. Do you want to be the kind of person who walks around the block in the morning before breakfast? Do you want to be the kind of person who makes it a point to call friends every week? Do you want to be the kind of person who makes their bed every day? All of that is easier said than done, of course, but make a list of what's important to you. And then make a list of how you spend your time. Does the second list make the first one possible? Gah, I sound like some self-help weirdo, but please take what appeals to you or anything that resonates. Either way, know that you are NOT a loser. You are strong. You are a fighter. You are, very literally, a survivor. Please be good to yourself.

I've given this some thought, and right now, I feel like I would keep my married name, even if I remarried. It's my kids' last name and it's who I've been for half my life. It's been the name I've used professionally, and it ties me to Daniel and his family. It's all theoretical at this point, and I might very well change my mind. I certainly don't think there's a wrong or right answer, either. Interesting topic.

"(I'm also up to 14 15 16 cups of crushed ice today-- I have a problem, and may need intervention. But at least it's water and not alcohol or crack or something.)" This part of your post caught my attention. And although it seems irrelevant and like overstepping, I'd hate myself if I didn't at least throw it out there. A compulsion towards chewing ice is sometimes a sign of a condition called pica, which can indicate iron deficiency or anemia. I'm not a doctor, but low iron can also make a person feel cruddy, and the last thing a widowed parent needs is one more challenge. Just a loving, gentle suggestion to think about getting a blood test. More relevantly, I think a huge part of the healing process is becoming comfortable with who we are now. As long as our worlds crashed and we have to reinvent ourselves, we might as well make ourselves into the people we'd like to be. I'm happy that you're there. I think I'm on that road, but man, it sure is tough.

You're not alone. We're here for ya.

Jen, you still are an incredible person with unlimited potential. From what I can tell, you've handled everything life has thrown your way with enormous amounts of grace. You've been so supportive of everyone here. Be good to yourself, too. We're all right in there with you, a sucky-ass club of the only people who understand how we can be lighthearted one day and crushed under grief's weight the next. It's just our new normal. You are still you. No one emerges from this unscathed. You're doing a wonderful job. Really.

As much as I'd like to believe that he is always with us and watching over us, I also can't imagine how painful and frustrating that would be for him. Maybe I'm thinking about it too literally or in too worldly of a way, but if it were me, and I were forced to just sit on my hands and watch my loved ones hurt and grieve and live without being able to contact them or comfort them, that would be worse than anyone's religious Hell. Sometimes I feel his presence. But mostly I think he's just...gone. I'm not sure which one is more or less comforting.

I did a similar thing the other day. I was able to download and print out all the text messages my husband and I had exchanged. (He never had deleted our conversations.) It was more than 1,000 pages front and back, enough to fill a 4-ring binder. I went down quite a rabbit hole reading those and relishing in reading his words and almost hearing his voice. It made coming back to reality absolutely awful. I know I'll do it again, though.

So I'm pretty much at the one year mark. My husband technically died June 13, but today is the one-year anniversary of his brain aneurysm. The medical interventions in the four days after that were fruitless. So as far as I'm concerned, a year today is the day I lost my husband, the last day we talked, the last piece of normal. I have all the typical, expected emotions. Sadness. Panic. Anger, etc. But one thing has surprised me. Relief. I've been dreading these four days almost all year. The last few weeks have been particularly awful. Now that June 10 has rolled around, I'm just glad I'm not holding my breath anymore waiting. I'm ready to ride these days out, ending with a small balloon release ceremony on Saturday, the 13th. These four days seem like the ending of the first leg of an eternal race. I know things won't magically get better on the 14th, in part because that's, ummm Father's Day. (Thank you fate, for that lovely bit of timing.) But it feels like we will have passed all the Firsts. So my question is this. I know everyone is different, but is there any relief in getting through the one year? I know a lot of people say Year 2 is actually worse. That stops me down just thinking about it. We've started to see more and more glimpses of joy and good-life stuff and I'd hate to think of us going back to such dark days as we experienced last year. (I began reading this board about a week after Daniel died. I can't believe I'm in the Beyond the First Year forum now. There's some beauty as well as some sadness in that.)

We are also a proud organ donor family. Daniel died of a brain aneurysm, but his body and organs were healthy and strong. They were able to use all his vital organs as well as tissue, bone, etc. We had the opportunity to meet the heart recipient just before Christmas. It was remarkably touching and very intense. He was days away from death after having spent months in the hospital waiting for a transplant when Daniel's heart came in. He's now healthy and active. A good 85 percent of me is super happy for him. The other 15 percent, though, feels pain when they send photos of him running alongside his kids on their new bikes, because Daniel can't. And it hurts when he and his wife talk about how this must have been part of God's plan. They are overall very kind people, and -- if there is such a thing -- worthy. The recipient of his lungs shares my name. That in and of itself is very comforting. She's reached out to us through a letter and email, but we haven't met her yet. Again, I'm happy for her, but the tone of and frequency of her emails suggested a chattiness and friendship that I found kind of off-putting. She'd talk about her weekend plans and which movies she was thinking of seeing. All I could think of was that after getting Daniel's lungs, her life was so much easier. Mine is so much harder. I can't remember the last time I saw a grown-up movie. I've got kids to take care of full time. We haven't heard from the other recipients, and that's kind of okay with me. I'm happy we made the decision to donate and I know that Daniel would have done the same thing. He certainly had no more use for his organs, so why not give them to someone who could? It has been remarkable to think that part of him is literally still alive. It is one of the few things that has the power to make us feel any better about this whole thing. Thanks @LisaPop for setting it up.