I'm afraid to answer the door

Onto greener pastures.

I'm done being the grieving widow. I have felt this way for a few weeks now but today I gave myself permission. 

My therapist and I go through the time lines, the conversation is not always in sequence but today we finally arrived at a crossroad. 

1. Grieve longer (maybe even forever)
I think those who knew Christopher and I, and hopefully, by reading these words you can understand/have understood the depth of love that the two of us share(d). It would only be natural for me to continue grieving. Carrying this heavy weight and hurt around. He was my true love. My everything. Everything I was depended on him. His love, his friendship, his thoughts, his advice. Everything I wanted to be, involved him. Sometimes to the point where I could easily lose sight of who Lindsey was. He never expected this or asked me to do this, it just happened over the course of our relationship. It happened way before I even met Christopher. 

Remember, Jim? 
Yeah. 

The shift came when we moved to Colorado. Finally.
I belonged somewhere. My people. My vibe. I found Lindsey. 

She was just hidden in the curves of the mountains. 

Side note: Go to Colorado. Go out west. Soak it all in. 


Christopher deployed in March, we had just moved there in August so I had the warmer months to get settled and find my groove. 
Maneuvering our new adventures with two kids and adjusting to the geographical single parent role. We made friends. We hiked. Foraged. Built a life in this hippie Mayberry-esque town. 

Then life. 

I could grieve forever and would have every right to. 

2. Fight for answers
I can't answer my front door. I have to give myself a pep talk to do so, even when I know a delivery or someone is going to be there in 30 minutes or less. Anxiety and fear sink in and I make someone else answer or just won't at all. This is because of all the unanswered questions and speculations left lingering about. The closure that I still haven't received. 

One day he was fine, the next "pilots are at the door". 

Debilitating. 
Can't move on because everyone has lied. 
Everyone. 
From the beginning. 

I could fight. Blow up. Demand answers. 

Demand answers from people that have lied to my face, who have watched me scream and wail over my husband's casket. 

3. What I've chosen to do 

Move forward. 

I'm going to brag a bit and share what my therapist said today. 

"You are transitioning in and out of grief beautifully." 

I knew it was time. 

She knows everything. All the darkness. All the light. She's kept me balanced and honest. And honesty hurts. It is painful but it is necessary to move forward. I gave myself permission today. The last painful hurt,  the last amount of guilt and anger was shed. I released it to her and I didn't explode. She accepted me. 

"Most folks would rather believe in comforting bullshit than face scary reality. The sad thing is, you face scary reality, and things can actually begin to get better." 

Waylon Lewis 

I'm always going to miss my husband. There will be days, painful days but there will be more joy and more happiness than there ever was before. We understand how much it means now. The three of us have endured and will endure a hurt that most people won't go through till much later, if at all. 

It has changed us. 
It has softened me. 
It is ever evolving. 
I'm just going to keep flowing. 

I still have no clue who I am or what I want but I'm figuring it out. I also no longer need Christopher to make me feel loved or accepted or like I matter. 
I know what we had and what we shared and I will cling tightly to that. 

I'm also learning how to love myself. 
That I am a really good human being.
A being. 

The appreciation of my existence no longer depends on the love from someone else.  

I can love myself and in turn can love others purely. 
As it should be. 

Addendum. 

Otis Redding
Good to me  

I'm not crazy

Song of the day: 

Animal Collective

Kinda Bonkers

But maybe I am. I looked it up. 
The definition of crazy is a mentally deranged person. 

I looked up deranged.

 mad; insane 

I looked up insane. 

in a state of mind that prevents normal perception, behavior, or social interaction; seriously mentally ill 

There we go. 


Then I found this. 

"Complicated Grief Disorder, also known as traumatic or prolonged grief. The new diagnosis refers to a situation in which many of grief’s common symptoms—such as powerful pining for the deceased, great difficulty moving on, a sense that life is meaningless, and bitterness or anger about the loss—­last longer than six months."

Powerful pining. 
Check.
Difficulty moving on, if this includes extreme anxiety about decisions having to be made that would have normally been made with him, if this means I sleep with his dirty, smelly tan t-shirt every night because I pray to God or anyone listening that they will send him back to me, then...
Check. 
Sense that life is meaningless. Honestly, there are days. What's the point? What's the reason? Old life, new life, balance. How? 
Check.
Bitterness and anger about the loss.
Oh, yeah. Not at Christopher though, and believe me I've tried being angry at him. I chose him in this life though and there were some that didn't understand why I chose him over and over and over again. But I did. In life and death.
Check.

Yesterday was a really hard day. I was insulted from the start and then it just spiraled. The saving grace was Alexander's baseball game, nail biting excitement. They lost but they played with such spirit and tenacity, hard to focus on a crummy day when these kids are out there hustling their hearts out. Parents cheering, yelling at umpires (they get a beating, huh), mesmerized by seven and eight year olds playing like pint sized pros. Reminders that life is still here, ticking along and even if the start felt meaningless, those pint sized pros need their fans. 

I've noticed a pattern. The date creeps, adding another number to the months that he's been gone. I wonder if he'd be in the same spot had it been me that died? Sobbing, praying for answers and questioning life at its core. Doing his absolute best to create a happy life for our kids. Existing and grasping at any straw that resembles some form of what he used to be, what we were, what I was.  

It is possible I'm insane. I don't need a straight jacket. 
This type of insane comes from deep, complicated, grief.

Deep.
Complicated.
Grief.

I don't buy the disorder part. Love is not a disorder and just because he's dead, well that doesn't mean I can stop loving. 

He can't be replaced. I can be a highly functioning griever. 

I won't stop moving and shaking, my heart may just always be breaking.

Maybe I should write country songs? 

I don't need a straight jacket, just a tan t-shirt. 

I don't smile like I did before

Sundays were my favorite day of the week. I would wake up, peek over and he was already awake staring back or up, cooking breakfast, beginning the one day we cherished. There weren't any interruptions on Sundays. Our day to recharge from the week, to spend as much time as we possibly could doing what we loved. At the top of that list was just being together. I can taste it. I can see him standing there, I can smell him. And then it's gone and I'm racing trying to remember every detail, every line on his face, every eye lash that protected his spirit. The spirit that is aligned with mine. 

I'm having to redefine my Sundays. And every other day in between. 

I can write all of this down, desperate for someone to understand but until your life has been interrupted abruptly, completely ripped at the seams and everything you are, everything you hoped for and dreamed of is just sprawled out in the streets exposed. 

Run over by the rat race. Damaged. Raw. 

Nerve endings that you don't think will ever heal. 

I'm not talking about a hurt that goes away either. It's not like I stubbed my toe. This pain. This solitude. This crushing weight of reality. I can't describe that type of pain to you. You have to feel it. From what I've gathered, numbing the pain is easier, I can't do that though. I've tried. I've tried to run away from this, it's not going anywhere. I end up right where I began so I have to find a way to face this. To live with the pain, learn how to silence it when necessary and let it roar when the time is right. This Sunday it's thunderous. I'm allowing it, not without a little preparation for the next time it comes around. The theme this week and since I've come out of the fog has been defining who I am. What I want out of this. Small steps. 

Sundays are for peace.

Sundays are for smiling until you finally see a glimpse of yourself.

Sundays are for dogs.

Sundays are for yoga and walks.

Sundays are for sunshine and swimming pools.

Sundays are for cold, dreary weather.

Sundays are for hot tea and bonfires.

Sundays are for board games.

Sundays are for endless giggles.

Sundays are for donuts or long, drawn out brunches. 

Sundays are for freezing moments so you don't, won't forget. 

Sundays are for woods, and letting you know your aren't alone.

Sundays are for family, and not always with the ones who share your DNA. 

Sundays are for Stevie Wonder.

Sundays are for wonder.

Sundays are for wander.

Sundays are for enchantment.

Sundays are for Lindsey.

Sundays are for remembrance. 

Sundays are for love.

My days are never the same. I will never be the same. Adjusting to this is challenging and some days I feel like I'm coasting. I don't know what I want, who I want, how I want. I ask myself these questions all the time, the only answer I can come up with is travel. Chris and I travelled all the time. Together and separate, we would joke that our "seven year itch" was our nomadic spirit calling, time to move. Time to shake a leg. I hear you. 

I hear you and I'm listening. 

First stop is Disney World as soon as school gets out. The kids have no idea and I can't wait to see their astonished little faces. 

Sundays are for surprises.

Excuse me, your human is showing

Rain. 

It's always nice when you're having a down day and the weather decides to cooperate. 

I'm getting impatient.
When this happens I try to meditate and remind myself to be in the moment. This is not always so easy to do. I'm scared that, what if it's all bullshit? What if I'm doing all this work, checking all these boxes, doing the right thing, the right way and guess what? 
It doesn't matter. 
Yeah, I made well out of a situation that most can't see themselves overcoming, but from what I've noticed, most people can. They are capable and the amount of them doing well after suffering a major blow, it's inspiring but reminds me that it's just life. 
We make what we want of it, but at the same time what's it all for? Will we truly understand our struggles and adversities when it's all said and done? Are we here to ask these questions so our lives are more purposeful and we behave more meaningful towards one another? 

I don't know. 

I do know that kindness matters. I do know that people respond to a gentle hand. A warm meal, a smile, a reminder that they are a part of your meaningful life. 

I talk in circles, trying to figure it all out and really it just boils down to this. 

I don't know who I am anymore.

I look at pictures and they are just dreams. Beautiful dreams that I thought were going to be my forever. 

And then reality. 
And then life. 
And I can't dream anymore.

If I could live in that dream world, just once more. 
What would I do? Who would I be? Would it matter in the end? 

This is why I'm impatient. It has to matter. 
My life here, my daily existence, my pain, it all has to matter. 

Otherwise, I'm just floating. 

"What life is, we know not. What life does, we know well." 
Lord Perceval

Perks of being a widow

*Disclaimer: For full effect, listen to: 

Toulouse, I Will Follow You. 

(then just shuffle)

Now on with the show!

I'm young.

I can love again.

There are more hours in the day, because I don't sleep.

It' 12:44am and counting.

I'm not tired. I'm consumed.

Our boy turned 7 yesterday. 

If you are our friend, then you know this story. If you're our friend, you're reading this now so I'll share the love. 

Christopher was deployed in Afghanistan 2010, he was able to come home for Alexander's birth on his 14 day escape. His shovel to the face reality. His Mr. Hyde. I had no clue what I was doing. I was just in love. In love with a man that I truly believe hung the moon and stars in this world I exist in and I was having his baby. It was the ultimate. Insert Gidget swooning over Moon Doggie. It wasn't perfect but it was. He was coming home and our first love was coming into the world. I had a wonderful obstetrician who understood the sensitivity of having a deployment baby. Flexible schedule. Volcano ash. She was a gem. After actual volcano ash, he was home. 

I was home. 

We had a blissful week. 

Oceans.

Food. 

Decadence. 

Love.

Fear.

Family.

Joy.

Sacrifice. 

All that sacrifice. 

Those moments lost in time, equivalent to just yesterday. 

April 30th, when a star exploded and Alexander appeared. 

Before Chris died he made Alexander and I Calvin and Hobbes tshirts. Alexander's said 

"you can't take the sky from me" 

Now you get it. 

Alexander the Great was born on the evening of April 30, 2010. 

• Mother: Lindsey Wilbur
• Father: Christopher Wilbur 

Promisers of loving you forever and ever and ever and ever to infinity through a black hole and back. 

I was induced so we could adhere to the schedule of war and Alexander didn't progress like he should have so I had him via caesarean. 

Morphine induced coma and exhaustion from labor, I was gone. 

He had just come home from a nightmare. Exhausted, broken, unsure of what really, REALLY mattered in this big ol world. He sat by my side. Relentless, kind, gentle, effortless. 

I moved, he was up and at em'. The drug robot beeped he pushed the button to make it shut up. 

Then we went back to our house and he was just as dutiful. Just as loving, just as beautiful as a father can be in those awkward, scary moments. Loving his wife and his new baby, no clue what he's doing but trying his absolute best and it oozing out of every ounce of him. 

Pure love. 

Pure love. 

Pure love. 

Honest. Resounding. Everlasting. 

That man was mine and we did that and days like today, my heart breaks because he's not next to me. 

I wish I had the morphine drip so the tears would stop. 

I can survive this. 

The tears won't last forever.

You can't take the sky from me.