Complicated Grief Study, Part The First

Having been asked by several people how it's going and what it's like, I figured it'd be easier to just write up a post than have to have the same conversation or send the same e-mail/message time and time again. Accordingly, this is a description of it, at least thus far. I learned about this months ago, through a NAMI sponsored support group for those who'd lost a loved one due to suicide. They were looking for people who'd lost someone at least six months ago, and were still struggling with it. I called in, went through the screening instruments, and basically got the answer, “Uh-HUH! Complicated grief, all right!” Unfortunately, they'd just started a group of folks through it, so I had to wait for about three months to get the chance to get in. However, from what I was told about it, it's designed to help folks who've been struggling with some of the same kinds of things I have been. I'd said early on that I'd be willing to try just about anything that seemed like it'd have a reasonable chance of helping, and this fit in just fine.

So I waited.

It started up five weeks ago. The first week was a mix of going over some of the basics about the group, like how long it'd run, some of the stuff we'd cover, the idea we'd have homework, confidentiality, etc. The rest of the first meeting was folks introducing themselves and telling the story about who they'd lost and what had happened. The second group was more of the same introductions, as we hadn't finished the first time and there were some folks present the second meeting who weren't there the first time. One thing I got from that is that the friends who'd worried that the groups I've been part of are just focused on reliving the loss over and over were wrong. Just talking about and listening to those losses was really hard. I'd talked about Ariel's story before, but it'd been some time since I'd spent that long on it, and moreso since spending that much time hearing what anyone else had been through. I could see the point to it, but I really hoped that there wouldn't be more of it, at least not that much at one time.

The third meeting didn't seem to offer me much more, either. We went over the grief & emotion tracking logs that they'd given us, as well as talking some about what both “regular” or healthy grief and complicated grief are. Again, I could see the point to going over that. Not as many folks had read up on complicated grief as I had by that point. Heck, I'm pretty sure some hadn't read up on grief in general as much. And I understand why they wanted to go over it for those folks, to have a better idea of what we're working with and what to expect. I was glad that they made the point that the goal wasn't to get this all gone. Instead, it was to get to where we didn't feel stuck in it anymore, and to give us some tools to use to work through some of those things. Still, I was having to hold really hard to the idea that it'd help, that there'd be more to come.

Things changed in the fourth meeting. That was the one where they introduced what they're calling an exposure treatment. It's an approach I'd heard of before, under the name “systematic desensitization.” They had us list out some grief goals, as well as how much distress just thinking about them brought up. After that, we were to pick one that was a low to moderate level of discomfort to start working on. The process would start with spending 15 minutes a day just thinking about doing that activity or goal, and no more. The idea would be that, over time, our bodies 'n' hearts would stop reacting as strongly to it. Once we got to where there wasn't much distress (three days in a row where just thinking about it would rank about a two on a scale of one to ten), then we'd go on to the next step and repeat. The idea would be to work our way closer and closer to being able to actually deal with that goal itself, without either feeling stuck or overwhelmed by it. It wouldn't mean that it wouldn't hurt or be difficult, but that it'd be manageable.

Macho idiot that I am, I first picked the hardest goal that'd come to mind, sitting down to watch the video of our wedding. I'd watched half of it one time after she died, but haven't been able to approach it since. Thankfully, I pretty quickly realized I was overdoing it, and that I should follow the directions and pick an easier one. The one I picked is being able to look through the pictures of her I had printed out and put into a photo album. And so I've been just thinking about doing that. The first day I did so, the distress ranked about a six out of ten. As of today, it's the second time that it's only ranked about a two. If that keeps up tomorrow, I get to go to the next step. I reckon what's worth trying next is just sitting holding the photo album. Not opening or looking through it, but just holding it. And see how that goes. I like the idea of eventually getting to where I can look at those pictures of her when I want or have good reason to, and not having to wait for a time when it's just suddenly OK or manageable. Her recent birthday would've been a good day for that. Same with our wedding anniversary. Hopefully, I'll be there in time for the four-year mark in February...but that's for down the line.

The only thing I'm running into as a challenge with it so far is that spending the time even just thinking about looking at her pictures that much is leaving me kind of unsettled and wound up. As it's usually toward the end of the evening I've made time for it, that's meant I'm not able to unwind enough to sleep until later than I'd like. I'm sure that extra degree of exhaustion isn't helping matters any. I'm hoping that as the distress continues to abate and the success with this mounts, it'll get easier to let it go when I'm done.

There are other things left to face. I'm curious to see what else they'll present for us and have us do. At least at this point I can see how it can help. I'm just hoping it'll also help with learning how to enjoy life again, too. If I can get those two things from this group/study, it'll all be worth it.

Another @!$!!#! Layer

It's astounding how many different elements there are to working through grief. The closer the person was in your life who died, the more there is to it. Same with other complicating factors, that just add more dimensions and aspects. At first, it seems like the layers come through rather quickly. New things hit often enough that it feels like it's an ongoing process. It gets hard to trust that things are really what they are, because new things have come up, and keep coming up. There's no way to know if or when the next will appear, but it never seems to take long. Hell, sometimes the next comes along before we're even feeling done with the previous one. And then a plate that already felt full feels overloaded. And if it was feeling overloaded, well, we wonder if this'll be the one to make it crack.

And yet, after awhile, enough's been worked through that it seems like it might be the end. The levels don't unfold as quickly anymore. We get some time to work through things. We get periods where there's not stuff coming up, that starts feeling like we've made some progress. We get to enjoy feeling a bit more settled with who we are, with who we've been becoming. We get to have a sense that we're actually handling things OK. There's a sense of confidence and comfort that comes with that. It starts feeling like life might be something we're going to be able to deal with again after all.

And then another fucking layer unfolds on us, and we find ourselves yanked into another go 'round on the rollercoaster.

I'd said before I hope to get to the point that most of what comes to mind when I think of her is the good memories, the good times we shared. Sure, it'd be unrealistic to expect the bad memories would be completely gone. I don't know of any way to erase all of those without erasing EVERYTHING. Besides, if nothing else, the memories of the bad times are good indicators of what isn't worth accepting again. What isn't worth it, no matter how many other things might be good....or might seem to be good. But those can be safely tucked away 'til they're needed, and most of what comes up is the good memories. That was the hope, anyway.

The one thing I hadn't really counted on is that having the good memories come back up could hurt so much. They're such a strong reminder of where there had been good elements and good times. And those are the things I really miss. Not having thought of them much, I hadn't missed them, not as specifically. But when they suddenly come to mind, bursting through like the rays of the sun shoving through the storm clouds that have blanketed the sky....all too often they hurt, too. The warmth of the sun is welcome after the frigid gale and rain, but when your skin's already raw and burned, it hurts, too. And I'd never considered how much work there might be that'd go into reclaiming those good memories, those good elements.

Another fucking layer to unravel. At this point, I'm afraid to wonder if this is the last. I'm afraid to assume it is...because I might be proven wrong...again.

Feathers in the Sand

I'd heard from a fair number of other widows and widowers I've gotten to know of things that come around that're signs from their deceased spouse. It's been a variety of things, from butterflies to dragonflies to electronics acting up and even finding heart-shaped things around them. It'd been something I wished I had happen for quite some time. I hadn't had that experience, of something that would show up that would let me know that she's still around, that she still thinks of me. That I matter to her still.

Until just recently.

I was at a family reunion in northern California. My Dad's side of the family got together for the first time in years. It wasn't all of us, but it was a good-sized majority, With the exception of my brother and three cousins, all of us were there. The aunt who put it all together has a house in a little town on the coast just north of San Francisco. She arranged for a couple other houses to be available for us, too. We were easy walking distance from the beach, maybe 30 yards or so from the front door of the house where I was staying to the start of the sand. And it made it plenty easy to go for walks along the water. Most of them were done with other people, either paired up or small groups. But I did one walk alone. I was needing to clear my head and work through some of my own stuff, because the last time I'd been out there had been with me darlin' wife. And that was pushing some buttons. I didn't want to take any of that out on anyone else, so I headed out on my own for a bit.

I still don't know what clicked. I'd been walking awhile and was feeling the effort, especially of keeping up a good pace in the sand. It wasn't completely dry, but it also wasn't completely wet and packed, either. I still wonder if it took me getting physically tired enough to get at least some of me out of the way enough for something to get through. But at one point I found myself looking down and noticing some of the feathers that were scattered along the beach. There were a fair number of them, fallen from the gulls and the pelicans that were always around. One, in particular, caught my eye. On an impulse, I picked it up and brushed the grains off of it. And then I stuck it back, quill-end first, into the sand so that it stood up, aligned with the wind. Looking at it, the thought hit me that it was the same color of brown as me darlin' wife's hair had been.

And it clicked. It was from her.

For the rest of the time there, I'd make a bit to go down to the beach and, if I saw other feathers that caught my attention like that, I'd stand 'em up in the sand. Each one made me a little sad. Even more, though, they reminded me of her, of what she looked like, of how she'd smile. Of how she liked to be outside. Of how there were a lot of times that she liked spending time together.

The funny post-script came the night after I got back. It'd been raining and windy when I went outside. In the driveway, I found a small feather, just about the same shade of brown. With that kind of weather, it shouldn't have been there. If the wind hadn't blown it halfway across the state, the rain should've washed it into the gutter and down a drain. But there it was. Another nod from her. I have it inside the house now, as I couldn't find any sand to stand it in.

I've kept my eyes open since. I'm sure there'll be more. She'll say “Hi” again.

The Last Magical Place

It's been awhile since I posted anything. I've been dealing with a rather nasty bout of depression that's finally starting to lift some. I'd thought it had started kicking in shortly after the 3-year anniversary of her death, back in February. Talking with some friends and family, they've said that it started earlier than that, maybe back around Thanksgiving. Regardless, it'd been making things harder and harder for quite some time. I finally had the sense to get help for it, and it seems like it's paying off. I'd wanted to write before, but this is the first time I've actually felt able to do so. Hopefully it'll be something I can get back to regularly, as I know it'd helped before.

This last weekend I went for a hike. I'd gone to the same area a week before, though not to exactly the same spots. I'd first gone there with me darlin' wife when we celebrated our 10-year anniversary. In addition to renewing our vows, we'd gone to an inn up in one of the local canyons. The dinner was fantastic, the room was nice, and breakfast kept up with dinner. That second day, we went for a hike up at the top of the canyon. We'd headed up to a place called Twin Lakes, and the trail leads to the eastern edge, where a dam holds that side of the lake in place. We then went on around the lake to the western edge, which is against the side of the mountain slope below a saddle between two peaks. It's a kind of isolated spot, and it'd felt magical when we'd been there. We hadn't planned on hiking that far, but it'd really made the day. I hadn't been back to that specific place.

Until this last Saturday, three days ago.

Even then, I hadn't planned to go back there. I'd planned to hike a loop that would take me to the eastern edge of Twin Lakes, to where the trail meets the dam and would take me back down. Due to a rather curious series of events, I ended up with more time than I'd thought I'd have, and it led to following....something. Something inside me wanted to take another trail, to see where it would go, and yet another that split off from it. The end result was coming to the saddle behind the western edge of Twin Lakes overlooking that spot. As I was hiking there, the thought had come up of stopping by that place. I'd felt anxious and uneasy about it, wondering why I'd go. Wondering what I'd find. Wondering if it'd be worse if I found...nothing. And I just didn't want to go.

And yet I ended up down there.

The trail I saw that looked like it led down from the saddle disappeared halfway down the slope. The clearest way down through the scree and undergrowth of plants would lead there. In retrospect, it was stupidly dangerous to go off-trail through that area. I'm lucky I didn't break something on the way down there. But I ended up back at that place. At the edge of the lake. Where it'd felt magical being with her.

And I found...memories. It was the first time in months, more than I can count off-hand, that I was able to remember her with warmth and affection. For months, I'd not wanted to think about her, not if I could help it. And when I did, it was often hung up on how she left or how rough things were for the last few years. How I'd stood by her and done so much to try to help, only to have her do....this. But in that place, I could remember her smile. The warmth I felt seeing it. How much she trusted me. How much she was willing to share of herself. How much she accepted me.

I don't think I stayed there all that long, maybe 20 minutes or so. And then I had to go. It was too much. It was overloading having all that come back all at once. But it hit me on the way out, that it was the last of the places that'd felt magical for us, the last one I hadn't been to yet. That there were no more places to go to, to try to find memories or some sense of her. There's nothing left to look for, to hope for.

To be afraid of.

Life Is Messy

Life. There's all kinds of things to be said about it. It's long. It's short. It's beautiful. It's tragic. It's frightening. It's confusing. It's excruciating. It's a dream. Take your pick. You could spend a lifetime just coming up with different things to say about life. Nearly all of them will be true, at least to some extent. Similarly, they'll also be incomplete or incorrect to an extent. No wonder there's hundreds of years of philosophers' writings out there...and why we keep getting more.

For now, there's one that I want to go with as a place to start: life is messy. I don't mean that it's dirty or disgusting or a breeding ground for disease (though those things are kinda true). I mean that it's complex and surprising and sometimes unpredictable and hard to figure out. We get surprised. All the time. Sometimes what we think is coming comes around. At least as often, it goes in a different, unexpected direction. Sometimes things we think will last forever...don't. And sometimes things we think are done pop back up in some of the most unexpected kinds of ways. Not surprising, this is all an introduction to what I wanted to share.

I'm lucky enough to have several good friends from high school. We graduated 25+ years ago, which means we've now been friends for more than half our lives. One called me up today, a friend I hadn't talked to in a bit and I'd been thinking I should call. She had some sad news to share. The husband of another friend of ours just passed away. He'd been dealing with some heavy health issues for some time. Last I'd heard, about a year ago, he was doing OK. Evidently, that wasn't to last. I think she called me for a couple reasons: to let me know, because I'd be able to relate to where our friend likely is right now, to be able to process it some herself. It makes sense.

It was good timing for a call. See, I've been having a really rough time of things for the last few days. My financial situation's gotten somewhat messed up, thanks to complications with student loans, the loans being handed off to another agency, no-one having contacted me to let me know for the last seven or eight months, being told there's a deadline on getting them paid off. Before me darlin' wife ended her life, I'd have been upset by this but able to handle it OK. Instead, in the last few days I've found myself dealing with anxiety that sometimes verges on panic and makes sleep as elusive as smoke in a breeze. I was glad my friend was willing to talk a bit about that, as she's had to do some work with her loans, could relate, and had some good suggestions. What really helped, though, was having her remind me that, even if this situation is kind of screwed up, it doesn't mean that I am or that my life is. That there's plenty of good stuff I've done, that has meant a lot to a fair number of people. She reminded me about something I'd done for her brother way back in the day. And it reminded me of something else that I mentioned to her. She was kind enough to let me re-tell the story. When I was done, she said I should write it up, and I promised I would. So, here goes...

About five months after me darlin' wife committed suicide, the wife of a co-worker died. I'd gotten to work with Grant indirectly for a couple years. Our offices weren't in the same area, but what we worked on overlapped some, and so we'd end up running into each other fairly often. He'd been one of the most friendly and welcoming and respectful and gentle people I'd met. Those were qualities I really appreciated when I started, and came to respect even more over time. I'd known his wife had been seriously ill for awhile, but her death still seemed sudden. I remember that they'd announced the memorial for her at work, and at first I just knew I couldn't handle it. I figured I'd wish him the best and, if he wanted, be around to talk when he got back to work. As the day kept approaching, I was more and more sure I wasn't going.

The day of the memorial, I remember getting a couple things done and then talking with my boss when he was getting ready to leave for the memorial. Suddenly, the nudge hit me that I should go, too. My first take was that it was a ridiculous idea. I wasn't dressed for..... And then I looked down. And quietly muttered, “Aw shit....” to myself. Because I realized I'd dressed in all black that day. And then I realized I was going to go. For the whole drive out there, about 25 minutes or so, I recall shaking and frantically praying that I'd get there in one piece and at least not break down myself in front of him and his family. They had their own grief to deal with; they didn't need me becoming a spectacle. I just figured I'd show up, offer my condolences real quick, and get the Hell out of Dodge.

I got there in one piece and a bit before the memorial service was sent to start. I walked up to the front row where Grant and his daughters were sitting. He was a big guy, and usually carried a sense of energy and vibrance. This time, though, he was hunched over, like he barely had the energy to be sitting up. There was sadness in his face, but something worse. He wasn't all there. I've heard that look described as a thousand-yard stare, like he was looking at something a LONG ways off. I walked up to him and it took him longer than usual to even notice me (which doesn't happen often to a guy who's pretty close on six and a half feet tall). Suddenly his expression lightened and he came back to himself. His surprise turned into a mix of joy and gratitude as he quietly said “Oh, my God...” before he stood up. He'd known what had happened with my wife. He said he'd never expected me to be there. I told him I was sorry for his loss, that I had some idea of what he was dealing with, and that if there was anything I could do that I'd be willing. He wasn't always a real demonstrative guy, but he gave me a hug. After brief introductions to his daughters and similar condolences, I got the Hell out of Dodge. I'm still proud I made it out to my car that day before I broke down crying.

Well, about six months later, I was going to another memorial service. Grant had died of a brain tumor. He'd collapsed at work about two months after his wife's memorial, and didn't last much longer than that. By then, I felt like I had it a bit more together, and so I knew well beforehand I was going to his memorial. I figured it'd be the same, that I'd show up briefly before it started, offer my condolences, and then head out. I got there a bit early and waited in line with other folks to express condolences to his daughters. When it was my turn, before I could say anything, the first daughter called me by name (remember, I'd only met her the once for a couple minutes at her mother's memorial six months before). Before I could say anything, she said that her father'd gone on and on about me, about how much it'd meant to him that I'd shown up at his wife's memorial. That it had meant so much to him....and by extension to his daughters. And that she was so grateful that I'd come for his memorial service, too.

I hadn't gone to either of them to try to make a big, earth-shattering difference in someone's life. I was focused on just trying to do the decent thing. His reaction, and the reaction of his daughter, both surprised the Hell out of me. It hadn't felt to me like I was doing much. I hadn't even stayed for the whole service. I just knew they were sad and hurting and wanted to let them know they weren't alone. Nothing special. At the time, the only thing I could see that would be in it for me would be knowing that I'd done the decent thing, for a co-worker I respected and later for his family.

Here's where the thing about life being messy coming in. Like I said, when I was talking with my friend, I was kind of a mess. Anxious. Confused. Struggling to keep my head clear and not just run away from the situation or ignore it or go off over it. Feeling like I'd screwed up my life and having a hard time holding off that inner boot that kept bruising my inner ass. My friend didn't tell me that story. She made the comment that reminded me of it. The payoff for me in having just tried to do a little, decent thing was giving me a memory and a story that I'd need to help pick me back up and carry myself through one of my own dark, painful moments.

We really don't know how the things we do will affect others' lives....or our own. But that's the thing about life being messy. Things are connected, often in ways we can't see or predict until they suddenly show up. Sometimes it's those little acts of kindness or compassion or decency that are the ones that mean the world. And sometimes come back around to save our own.

Deserve's Got Nothing to Do with It

One of my favorite movies is still “Unforgiven” with Clint Eastwood, Morgan Freeman, and Gene Hackman. One of the lines that still stands out for me is the title for this entry, “Deserve's got nothing to do with it.” It's what Clint says to Gene Hackman just before shooting him. Hackman's saying he doesn't deserve it (to die), that he's building a house. The implication was that he was just doing what he thought was right. Admittedly, part of that was being an utter bastard, even if it was in the service of trying to keep the peace in his town. At that point, Clint was right. Deserve really didn't have anything to do with it. There was lots of stuff that was deserved that didn't happen. Not everyone who was bad got punished, or at least not as they deserved...however that might be determined. It just ended the way it did.

One of the things that I've found happens to me when I'm really stressed or tired or worn out is that I do find myself wondering what I might've done to deserve this. To have to deal with the aftermath of my wife ending her life. Intellectually, I know it's not the case. When I'm not worn down, those thoughts really don't come up anymore. But, at those times when I am depleted, they come back. Did I do something to her to bring it on? To someone else before we met? Maybe in a previous life? And what the Hell would someone do to actually deserve this?

What's sometimes even harder is when it's not just wondering about what I'm struggling with. Sometimes, I find myself wondering what I did to deserve to be living in this house. It is, after all, more space than I need (which is one reason, among others, I think it'd be a good idea to move). It's certainly more than I could've managed to get if she and I hadn't been together. Or how do I deserve to still be here? I can't think of anything particularly outstandingly good I've done that'd fit for deserving this, either. It just sometimes doesn't seem to make sense.

At times like that, I have to remind myself that, in this situation, deserve really doesn't have anything to do with it. It just is what it is. Maybe when it's my turn to shuffle off this mortal coil, I'll be able to ask whatever Power (or powers) that be what the Hell this was all about...and why.

Until then, it's just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Keep breathing. Keep moving. Keep healing. Keep trying to figure out how to actually live this life I have.

What I Knew, What I Know..

When I was in high school, one of my favorite bands was The Scorpions. I liked the hard rock/heavy metal sound. I enjoyed the energy and drive of it. And I liked the mix of music that was about having wild, fun times and the occasional power ballads that were more sentimental. It fit for me. Even with all the anger I had, there was still that part that wanted to believe in love, in the idea of finding someone. Of finding a soulmate, and that if you loved each other enough, then it'd all be all right. It wasn't the promise that love would make everything easy, or that there wouldn't be hard times. But if there was love between you, then it'd work out OK in the end and you'd get to be happy and together. For me, nothing epitomized that more than this song:

 It's about the idea that things haven't gone well. There are problems. There are hurt feelings. There's distance between y'all. There's also still the hope of it working out. And the best that's available to bring as a reason to give things another chance is....love. After all, “still loving you.” That seemed to fit with the idea of marriage being something that's for richer and poorer, for sickness and health, for better for worse, until Death do you part....and maybe not even then. Love is what holds it all together. You just love each other as hard and as strong as you can. End of story.

One of the hardest lessons I had to learn, and I still get reminded of it, is that things are rarely as simple as they seem. Don't get me wrong. I still think love is fantastic. I still think it's amazing. I still think that it makes just about everything possible. However, I don't think it's the end-all, be-all of things working out between two people. I don't think it's what'll hold a relationship together. I don't think that you just can sit there and feel it with all the might you can summon and...things will be happy the way I want. Yeah, it doesn't work that way. You do need to have love, but you need other stuff, too: dedication, tolerance of discomfort, commitment, work, etc.

It's one reason why the last power ballad the Scorpions put out has impressed me so much. The last one, “Lorelei,” is more about having been in love and having had to walk away. Because sometimes love doesn't last. Sometimes relationships don't work out. And it doesn't mean that it hurts any less, or that it doesn't keep hurting over time, even if it's sporadic. And sometimes the harder thing is knowing when to let go...and continuing to not hold on or grasp back at what was:

There were a lot of good things to the time my wife and I shared. I've been able to remember them more clearly in the last couple months. In some ways, it's a blessing. In others, it makes it hurt worse, at least for now. The fact there were good things, that there was love there, isn't undone by her choice to end her life. At the same time, that love wasn't enough. Not on her part, or mine. It's not as simple as love will make it work. If it didn't work, there wasn't love, or not enough. That it was ALL a lie. Maybe some of it was. But not all.

Hell is tricky. It's not just great pits of fire or huge demons roaring hard enough to make the air shake brandishing red-hot giant tridents. The torments aren't just made up of the wailing or weeping or screaming. Part of what makes Hell what it is is that it's sometimes subtle. It's sometimes tricky. Sometimes it's not as simple as it seems.

Sometimes...

Stuck In-Between

I'm coming up on the three-year anniversary of my wife's suicide in just a couple of weeks. While the holidays seemed to go OK, things have been a lot harder since that time. One thing I'm hoping is based on something I've heard from several other widows. They'd mentioned that the couple of months leading up to the three-year anniversary were really rough, but also that things got a lot better once that was past. I hope the same for me. I know everyone's journey is different. However, when I hear from several people they had similar experiences, it gives me some reason to hope it might go the same for me.

It hit me earlier today that there's at least one aspect of this that's been difficult for me. On the one hand, coming up on the anniversary is reminding me a lot of what things were like with her before the end. Of how she was so depressed and irritable and isolative. Of how I would hope that we'd get to spend some decent time together in the evenings. Of how I'd be waiting up for that to happen. Of how, more and more often, it'd get to be 11:00 or so and I'd realize she'd shut off the lights and it wasn't going to happen that night. Of how I would feel hurt and disappointed...and yet still hang on to the hope that maybe it'd be different tomorrow. Of how I'd wonder how much longer it'd go that way, or if maybe the next change might make things better.

On the other hand, there's the changes I know I've been able to make since she died. One of the things I've picked up is an interest in learning to cook. I'd never been all that good at it before. She was a good cook, but hated doing dishes. We'd had the deal set up that she'd make food for us and I'd clean up. Well, after her death, I still needed to eat. While I don't consider myself a good cook by any stretch yet, I know I've learned a decent amount. I can do pretty well with a crock pot or pressure cooker. And it's something I've done for me. It's not a carry-over from the time we did share together. It's something I've enjoyed and felt good about. It's meant I'm eating better and not doing fast food as much. While it's not something I'd ever pictured myself studying, it's still something that's uniquely mine. And I like it. It's a step toward who I eventually want to get to be.

What's hard is feeling stuck in between them. I feel the proclivity to just keep waiting still there. Waiting and resenting not having what I hoped for come along. And yet I see the changes happening, too. And it leaves me feeling like I....I don't know who I really am right now. That in-between phase is hard. It's not much fun. I think it's one reason why sometimes teenagers are so volatile and reactive. They're not really kids anymore but they're also not adults. They've got aspects of both, but aren't quite either.

They're in-between. And sometimes it feels like things are stuck there.

All I can think is that it's part of the journey. Part of what makes this whole process hellish is that sometimes it's in flux and just seems to be...stuck there. It doesn't make it the case, but knowing that sometimes doesn't make it feel any different.

And all we can do is know where we hope to get and keep trudging along.

A Cup of Pudding

A couple of days ago, I had one of those single-serving cups of pudding. You know the ones, the really cheap ones where you don't really recognize the brand name. The sign on them at the grocery store has at least two exclamation marks to help highlight what an amazing bargain they are. Quite frankly, it tasted pretty bad. Not quite terrible. There wasn't enough synthetic crap thrown into it to quite overpower the sugar. And the texture wasn't quite like half-dried shower caulk. But it wasn't all that great, either. Then again, I didn't eat it for the flavor.

I ate it to prove something to myself.

I was aware as I wrote that last sentence how insane it sounds. Proving something to myself...with pudding?? Actually, yeah. See, I've had a problem with the stuff for the last three years. Something that was found in the hotel room with my wife was about a dozen of those single-serving cups, about half of which had been opened and eaten. And, in the information she'd printed and taken with her, it stated very clearly that one of the drugs would go down well with pudding, the one that'd be loaded up on hourly for about a day before actually taking the lethal meds. It'd help make sure they'd work, that she would be much less likely to throw the lethal ones up and just wind up really sick. So she took a bunch of pudding with her. And used it.

Ever since I'd found that out, I'd had a hard time with pudding. I'd see it at the grocery store and I could feel myself flinch. At first, it was a physical thing, something I'm pretty sure people around me saw. I'm not even sure what they were thinking, seeing a full-grown man twitching away from a display of a snack sold for children. But that's what it was. Even after the physical flinch faded out, though, I could still feel it inside me. It was still something that hit me whenever I saw the stuff. At the grocery store. At a park. At work. Anywhere.

And I finally got to the point that I wanted to prove to myself that pudding wasn't going to win out over me. I knew it wouldn't taste good. I was pretty sure the consistency would be kinda repulsive. I knew it had slightly less nutritional value than road tar. And I still wanted to prove to myself that it was something that I could handle. Not that it was something I would ever HAVE to handle. It's not like having to go to a grocery store again (which had also pushed buttons almost regardless of the store). Survival depends on eating good food. It thankfully doesn't depend on eating cheap pudding. But I wanted to know for myself.

It's hit me since then that maybe that's a sign of moving through this kind of grief, too. Sure, early on there's plenty of stuff we HAVE to face. Buying food. Cooking food. Paying bills. Sleeping. Those are all necessary. But at some point or another, I think we all get to the point of running across something that was take on because we WANT to, not because we HAVE to. I can't help thinking that's a sign of getting some strength and confidence back. Of having gotten tired of living within the constraints we initially needed to in order to survive. Of feeling enough energy and life within us that we're looking for challenges to take on. Maybe they're little ones. Eating a cup of pudding certainly isn't running a marathon or building a car from nothing but parts or writing and publishing a successful book.

It's still a step. Maybe I'll still have the internal flinch when I walk by there. But at least at this point there won't be the question in the back of my mind of whether or not the pudding will win. It might catch me by surprise. It will never win. It's been face down, and I walked away.

If I ever have to walk through that particular area of Hell again, there'll be no question it's one I can handle. I've already tested myself against it...and won.