It's ok to not be 'ok' yet

A friend broached the subject of my grief with me recently. I consider this person to be very insightful and sensitive, so when he started to comment about my ongoing outpouring of grief for Dan, including my Facebook updates and photo posts, I tried not to feel defensive. Instead I decided to seriously think about what he said (I've been thinking about it for nearly two weeks now). 

He explained that his comments came from a place of concern and care (which I believe). He had seen someone very close to him lose her husband at a young age and hold on so tight to her love for him, that she refused to accept a world where further happiness was an option. 

He said he didn't want to see me martyr myself to Dan's memory. That my Facebook page had become like a shrine to his life, and this burning love could be so intimidating for any future potential suitors who might come along, only to be scared off. 

My friend then reaffirmed that he wasn't passing judgement or suggesting I alter my behavior, he just wanted to make sure I hadn't closed myself off to any future happiness and hope.

I took the time to process these comments and think about the points my friend was trying to make and after much reflection, came to the following conclusions.

Yes I use Facebook as an outlet for my grief. That's because writing is the easiest way for me to express myself and it instantly connects me to my support network when I'm usually feeling quite lonely and detached.

While I am still madly in love with my husband and mourning the life we were supposed to be leading together, I am also very hopeful that one day in the future my heart will heal enough to give to someone else. 

The love Dan showed me changed every part of my life. He gave me happiness beyond anything I could have imagined. If I seriously thought there was no chance of me experiencing that again in my lifetime then I probably would have died of a broken heart, given up and gone to join him by now.

I re-live every moment of that day he died constantly, along with the days, weeks and months leading up to it. Losing him in such a cruel and shocking way has been so horrific, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. 

But I am moving forward with life the best way I can. I keep putting one foot in front of the other. I returned to work, paid the bills, kept a reasonably balanced diet (Ben & Jerry's aside!) and I get out of bed every day.

I've actively tried to accept and understand his death rather than dwell in self-pity. I've had a truck-load of therapy and counseling to help me make sense of what's happened. I've poured through websites and self-help books researching suicide bereavement; mental illness; grief and widowhood.

I've explored theories on spirituality - talked with our priest, took up yoga and meditation and attended seminars by spirit mediums.

I've fought back tears and choked down sobs in public places where crying would be inappropriate. I've bitten my tongue when people have given me unwanted and ill-informed 'advice'. I've maintained a brave public face while feeling shattered at the cruel things I've heard have been said about Dan's death - including speculation on our relationship from people who, I've had to conclude, mustn't understand mental illness.

I've reached out to other people in my situation, completed a group therapy program, joined online forums and support groups, met other young widows from around Australia and am traveling to the USA to attend a conference and meet the inspirational founder of an incredible charity who wants to expand their services to Australia.

I've felt happiness and excitement, belly-laughed with those who love and accept me, been to see live bands, booked holidays, felt 'lucky' and have had days of peace and acceptance.

Right now I am 262 days in to this journey. I often question if I'm doing it right - should I be stronger by now? Are people growing weary of my sadness? Am I making him proud? 

One of my counsellors likes to joke that I'm such a high achiever that I'm trying to rush to the top of the class and get an 'A' for grief. She has to constantly remind me that I can't 'project manage' my way out of this situation. It will just take time.  She also has to remind me that it doesn't matter what other people think and I need to learn to put my needs first. 

Yes I'm sad. Yes I miss Dan. Yes at some point in the future I would like to define my life by more than just being his widow - but that time hasn't come yet. And won't for a while yet because I still have a lot more mending to do. 

I'm slower than I used to be, my mind is always a bit foggy because my sub-conscious is still working so hard to process Dan's death. I'm fragile, becoming emotional and teary at random times, set off by 'triggers' too long to list, with more being discovered every week. I'm exhausted most of the time yet struggle to sleep at night. Despite this, I can count the days I've called in sick to work on one hand. 

Every social interaction is a mine field. I'm constantly at risk of blurting out something inappropriate or over-sharing because my sense of 'normal' is so dramatically different to most other peoples'.

Grief is complicated and unique but please be assured I am taking steps forward.

Every night before I go to bed I write down one thing that I'm grateful for. This helps me count my blessings and focus on all the wonderful people and gifts in my life. 

I talk to Dan, telling him my favourite thing about my day - just as I used to each night when he was alive.

Then I turn out the light, reach out to his side of the bed and let the tears flow, muffling my crying into my pillow so I don't scare the neighbours. 

I've accepted this is a long road and I will never be the same person I was before. I've accepted that this is the hand I've been dealt and despite our plans to be starting a family with the man of my dreams this year - I'm instead trying to learn how to feel light and happiness again.

I ask you to please continue to be patient with me, please let me grieve the way I need to. And please don't judge me.