The First Year

I miss writing. When I started this blog I figured I wouldn’t have a problem keeping up with it. I don’t know that I have ever really been at a loss for words in my entire life. But lately I just can’t find the words to express myself. I definitely expected to be able to come up with something to write on September 5th, the one-year anniversary of Ian’s death, but I was blank. I couldn’t even come up with a coherent thought that day, let alone a coherent sentence. So, here I sit. Still trying to figure out what it is I want to say.

I think sometimes that I avoid writing because I’m almost afraid to put into words the thoughts that come into my head. I don’t want anyone to think I’m crazy. Then I’ll read a book written by a grieving parent, or I’ll read an article from the Compassionate Friends website, and I realize I’m not all that unique. My thoughts aren’t so abnormal. Maybe I’m not losing my mind. Either that, or we are all crazy.

It’s been a very hard summer for me. I couldn’t help but make comparisons between this summer and last. Last summer I was so happy and so healthy and so blissfully unaware of what the future held. I had no clue that within a few short weeks my life, as I knew it, would be over. This summer I’ve struggled to keep my head above water, it seems. It started with Ian’s birthday in July. And for the next six weeks or so, I felt myself slowly drowning. I was crying less, and was able to get through the day by pretending I was fine. But inside I was coming completely undone. I felt agitated and confused: the thread I was hanging by was stretched to the breaking point. Most of the time, I didn’t even recognize the person I felt like inside. All I could think about was how I wanted my old life back. I wanted the old me back.

Is there such a thing as using “tough love” on yourself? Maybe that’s what I need to do. But, for now, I’m doing better and I’m feeling pretty strong. I’m not sure what the turning point was. Maybe it was getting sick of living in the past. Maybe it was the look of love and concern on my dad’s face when he told me he was worried about me. Maybe it was my sister telling me to “get up and brush yourself off” like she’s been telling our kids to do for almost twenty years. Maybe it was the sadness in my childrens’ eyes when they saw me depressed. Or it could have been the absolute devotion my husband feels toward me, regardless of my mood swings. He gets irritated and angry with me at times…but I have no doubt whatsoever that he loves me and misses the woman he married.

So now, the one-year mark has come and gone. It’s odd, but I almost feel a sense of relief and – strangely enough – pride. I remember one year ago, feeling that I’d never make it through the next hour, or even the next day. I couldn’t imagine getting through a whole year, living with such pain. I couldn’t imagine how life could go on without one of my children. But life has gone on. And maybe with some tough love and prayers, I’ll be able to join the living again. That’s my plan.

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