In the beginning, people call and ask you out to lunch or over for dinner. They offer to help out and babysit for your child. They treat you like you are made of something very fragile that would break with a cross word or a misinterpreted action. And they are constantly bucking you up not because they believe that your sadness is unhealthy for you but because they are so acutely uncomfortable with what has happened. They have been awakened to the possibility that there but for the grace of God they may go to, and they don’t like it. They don’t like that you are not strong, that you need so much time, that you are frozen in a moment that you relive endlessly, and that you are quite probably infecting them with whatever bad karma has brought death to your door. The further out from the early days you travel the less they are there for you. Impatience replaces kindness and understanding. Why aren’t you taking steps to rebuild your life? Why aren’t you returning to the accepted standards of self-reliance? Why are you still sad? And lost? And needy? And taking up my time? Time that is better spent on things that aren’t tainted with grief and death. Past six months they think they are being kind when they offer you advice on what you can do for yourself as opposed to offering assistance with what you need done. They think that you would get over your loved one’s death faster if you would join a club or go to a singles’ function. They equate the lose of the person who loved you more unconditionally than your own parents ever have with breaking up with a lover or getting a divorce. You should be cried out by now. You should not be bothering me with this anymore. But, they don’t say that because they know that they are wrong to think and feel the way they do, and that you are in the right to mourn. They stuff that down deep; they way they wish you would stuff your grief. And eventually, you stop asking them for things because it is just easier. How are you? Fine. I’m okay. Even though I am not okay. The numb disinterest in everything is gone now and replaced by a raw, scraped feeling that makes you a lightening rod for every heightened emotion that filters past daily. In the beginning you turn inward and sought the cocooned safety that the emotional distancing of grief provides in much the same way burn victims are shielded from the agony of their smoldering flesh by a shutdown of the pain receptors. But the receptors switch back on in time to witness the desertion of family and friends who withstood the waves of heat rising off your blistering soul while you were oblivious to it. Because of this, you can’t easily label them traitors and cast them aside. They were there at one point. It was, unfortunately, a point at which you weren’t paying any attention at all. And now you really need the shoulders, the help reconnecting with society at large, and they are tired and ready for you to be normal again. And the ironic thing is that they know as well as you do that you will never be that kind of normal again. And the more ironic thing is that I am not sure I want to be.
I Am Not Okay
7 thoughts on “I Am Not Okay”
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anniegirl1138 
I feel very isolated, no one understands me. I can relate to perhaps not wanting the life before my husband died. Life then was so carefree. My life is no where near carefree now. Its filled with sadness. With ever small and big situation there is the reminders and there are so many. I wish it can be different.
I get that.
This is a very old post. Among the first I wrote when I started blogging.
Eventually, life is okay again even though you never really reconcile with the loss itself. That always hurts and seems unfair. And I wish I could explain in words how we live with that and yet find ourselves living life again. I can’t. I’m not that gifted. But we do find ourselves living and among the living again. It happens and I still find that a bit surprising and incredibly hopeful.
I am sorry that you are feeling alone and unable to find someone who can relate or at least listen without offering judgement or advice. It’s a hard place to be.
You will be okay and it’s okay not to feel okay right now. In fact, it’s normal. It gets better.
All that you said is true. My husband of 25 years died on May 16th, 2009, of brain cancer. It was horrible. I miss him every moment and it’s not getting easier. I hide the tears and the pain as much as I can. All the people who said, I’m here for you and I’ll call you didn’t. Emotionally, I’m a train wreck. Physically, it’s affecting me. Financially, I’m filing for Chapter 7 because I lost his wages and had no insurance. I’ll make it though. Some of his ‘relatives’ never even once called to see how he was for the 7 months he was ill. One of them drove by my home every work day and still nothing. Not an email, a phone call or scratch on the ass. They disgust me. I don’t want them in my home ever again. He was a good man. I loved him and still do. It wasn’t fair that he would go and others who think nothing of life or other people are still here. I am angry and sad and I’m scared that I will lose my home. I’ve never felt so lost and alone in my life.
I am so sorry for your loss. In the beginning it seems like it gets worse with every passing day instead of the better that people promise. But feeling okay and eventually better are goals for further along – not in the beginning.
It is incredible the way some family and friends disappear during long illnesses. I was angry then, can still be from time to time, but I see now that not everyone is strong or dependable. They are who they are and it’s not worth my time to lament it.
The physical toll can be heavy. Please remember to take every opportunity to rest and take care of you though I know when there are financial issues that isn’t always possible.
Have you looked into hospice grief counseling? It’s usually free and a good way to find others who are going through the same experience. It’s also a place where you don’t have to hide tears and pain. Although I don’t normally recommend on line grief support anymore there are two sites WidowNet and the YWBB where you might find people who understand and can be a support. Just remember to trust yourself and the real people in your life as primary supports and take what you read with a grain or two of salt.
I am very sorry you are feeling so alone and are under so much stress. As you said, you will make it through and one day life will not be as painful and hard as it is now.
I totally understand it seems as the whole world forgets after one month and thats when u need them the most. it has been almost 5 months now and it is the hardest thing i have ever been through and getting easier and tougher at the same time.
It does get better. I am over three years out now and while there are moments, they are different now. Take care of yourself.
It has only been two months, since I have lost my husband. My sister refers to it as a divorce “Death of a spouse or divorce is very similar” I have no idea where she has the gall to even relate those two together. I will never hold him again, hear his voice, or his laugh. I don’t know how I am going to get through this. I almost want to curl up too and never wake up.
Your sister doesn’t understand and she doesn’t know how to help you, so like many, she makes the only comparison she can think of and is puzzled or upset if you don’t find it helpful. She is lucky to be so blissfully ignorant, but I know that it is hard to endure such people in the early days and months.
Two months out is very new to widowhood. Emotions swing wildly or not at all because a person is still in shock. For me it was about 4 or 5 months before I could feel much of anything or get too worked up about other people, my job, my child even. One moment at a time and just breathe – that’s how I did it, that’s how most others have done it.
It does get easier. You do adjust, after a fashion, and sometimes you find new direction and new joys. But it’s all a matter of time and timing and, in my opinion, a bit of personal determination. At two months, it’s about the loss and not much else.
I am very sorry that you have lost your husband.