And so I hit rock bottom. I walked head on into a brick wall. I fell into a hole so black that it was like being buried alive. If you don't want to know, then this is a warning: Stop reading now. Because this is bleak. But my blog is not a pretend-blog, and one of its pillars is honesty. I might as well not write if I can't be honest.
On the one year date of my husband's death - I don't want to call it "anniversary" because to me that word implies celebration - April 6, I invited my family for dinner. My daughters, granddaughters, my husband's sister and one of his closest friends. It was a nice gathering, good food, warm conversation. But I felt uneasy, restless, fidgety. I was both looking forward to everyone leaving and dreading the moment they were gone.
I tried to go to sleep in the small hours, but instead everything broke. I did not recognise myself, my reactions were new to me. I pushed everything off his side of the bed - I leave clothes and my books there, it seems less empty that way - and for the first time in one year I lay on that side. His side. I melted into him, and I thought my crying would never stop. Not crying, but howling. I drowned. I fell. I died. My heart was wrenched out of me.
I spent the following day - April 7 - in bed, stuffing myself with sedatives. I was an exhausted zombie with a puffy face. Did I have a face? Was I obliterated now? Was there anything left? Any pieces to pick up?
I got up at 8 pm, I think. Watched some TV, I think. Went back to bed. I think I did. And I think I slept for ten hours. Did I? I can't be sure.
But Friday the 8th was okay. It was quiet. Like a calm after the storm. Fortunately it rained and rained, kept pouring down, wouldn't stop. Great. I couldn't have faced sunny weather. Best friend Grete invited me for pizza in a lively Italian restaurant, where all the waiters speak Italian and prefer to take your orders in this beautiful language. We, fortunately, were with Grete's son and his gorgeous Italian wife, so we could bask in her glory. This kind of experience helps heal me. Gives me a break. Soothes me.
Now, two weeks later, I am still quite zombie-like. I feel I merely - and barely - exist, but at least I try to lead my other "normal-life." Which I have done all the time. "Chin up"-kinda thing. While my other totally fragile and vulnerable self trudges along in circles in that dark pit, trying to make heads or tails of this complicated business we call life.
As always the analytic side of me pops out - explaining to the rest of me: It had to happen sooner or later. You've been through one year, seen all the special and difficult days come and go, thinking, NOW. Now I've been through them, the climb is upwards from now on. Then you realise, no. Those days will come and go, again and again and again. And yet again. And then once more. Year after year. Until one day comes - maybe - when everything has softened, memories are milder, contours mercifully blurred.
Again I find comfort in my friends and family. I am lucky. My sister Kari and one of her sons coming to good old-fashioned Sunday dinner, saying, you can stay with us as long as you like when you have to move out of your apartment (yes, I sold it). A coffee (or two) with a friend, who just listens to me. Two hours sitting cross-legged on the grass at my husband's grave with Grete yesterday, getting sunburned! (And I hate the sun these days)… Talking about things so existentialist, so profound, that the only way to break through is being a small baby bird knocking its beak through the eggshell. If it's able to. So fragile. Yes, Grete - your metaphor.
A long email from my Irish soulmate Addie, my sista from another mista. My brother from another mother. I know what she's going to say before she says it. She comforts me endlessly, she never tires of me.
And then, last night, hitting the neighbourhood café and bar for mussels and wine with, yes, my lovely neighbour.
All surviving techniques.
This has been hard to write, I know I'm exposing myself.
But it has to be this way or none at all.
