7/22/22 – 8 months since Laurie passed away.
I recently read a message in a group that resonated with me.
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
Haruki Murakami
This storm has been ongoing for 8 months now. It hit without warming or preparation. No one knew this storm was coming. There were no warnings. No hints that circumstances were about to change in ways we never could have imagined. But here we are in the midst of this circling storm. Left with no choice but to find our way through it.
There have been some pretty dark and bleak days in these last 8 months. Days I’d sit in the middle of the kitchen floor and cry. Sobs from deep within a heart that some days feels like it’s been shattered in a million pieces; never to be whole again. Stabbing at me from the inside. Fighting to get out. I’d sit in Laurie’s office. Motionless. Empty. Staring at her computer. Her desk. Her crafts. The room full of her life, but it felt so lifeless and empty. Her paintings. Her unfinished projects. Memories and things that she treasured. They appeared as if they were frozen in time. Just as they were the morning Laurie left our home for the last time. Without warning. Without saying goodbye. No final hug or kiss.
This home has sometimes been my solace for these last 8 months. My safe haven. My place to fall apart. Pull myself back together. And put on a brave face and walk out the door everyday to face an uncertain world. But this home has also felt like my prison. A place that has locked me in emotions, fear, anxiety, depression and allowed me to hide from a world that I’m still not entirely ready to face. Sort of my solitary confinement if you will. My mind says that’s not healthy. My heart says stay and hide. You are safe here.
I recently attended a BBQ at a friend’s house with other mutual friends from the recovery community. When I received the invite I immediately responded “yes” but knowing I wasn’t sure I was ready to do that. In fact, right up until the last minute where I had to decide to leave to be on time or decide to stay home, I still wasn’t sure. But I pushed myself outside my safe place, my hiding and said, “No, you have to go do this.” And so I did. It turned out just fine and I had a great evening with friends and new people I had never met before. Perhaps I was finding the way out of prison. Finding a way to rejoin society in whatever this new version of “life” was going to be.
That led to me attending one of the first community events that I’ve been to since Laurie passed away. People I hadn’t seen since Laurie’s passing sought me out and offered their condolences; their friendship and their love. it was an emotional day. But a good emotional day. What struck me driving home that day was how much I’d missed my friends; our friends. And how amazing it felt to feel the touch of another person. Not in an intimate way. But a friendly, supportive way. I’d missed that. By locking myself away, I had also buried that connection to others.
I’m beginning to restore those connections. To see friends. To be around people. And learning to let myself feel connected again. So far so good. I still don’t know where I am in the storm. Maybe just the fringes of the storm with much more of it to experience. Maybe I’m in the middle. Having survived the onset of the storm but beginning to push my way through to find that next opening; that next ray of sunshine peaking through the clouds. Maybe I’m starting to see light. Like some of the storm is lifting. Maybe all that matters is that I’m still in the storm. Standing. Fighting. Pushing my way forward. I do know one thing for certain though. When this storm starts to clear and I can see a way out, I will not be the same person that walked into this storm. That’s for damn sure.
In the end, we’re all just walking each other home; one storm at a time.
Grief After Loss 