I’ve been writing for my counselor. Sometimes she assigns me a topic and sometimes I just write whatever is on my mind or weighing heavily on me, which lately has been so much it’s overwhelming. But, I haven’t felt up to posting the pieces on the blog, because my writing reflects my feelings. It reflects me. It’s raw and real and not easy to feel or live through, let alone share. It’s why my writing has slowed down so very much over the past year + months. It’s hard to throw it out there, and then be judged by it, or hurt others, or make people aware of something they aren’t ready for or just don’t want to be aware of at all. Regardless, I’m going to start posting some. It’s not all pretty folks, so if you aren’t up for reading about it, please don’t. But if you want a little peak at just a few of the battles that happen within me, feel free to read.
My writing, again, comes with a disclaimer:
The following is my writing, my feelings, my thoughts, my life. If you disagree with some of my blog post today, or if you are offended, that’s okay. I’m simply sharing my current grief process for those who wish to learn or reflect upon it. Thanks for staying positive with any and all comments.
What I Didn't Know
I didn’t know…
- My last text message to him would be my last words ever to him.
- My last 4 days with him, between training and deployment, would truly be the last time I physically, in person, ever saw him, or spent time with him, or that that was the last time we would ever be together as a family, ever again.
- I’d raise our little girls without him.
- That I wouldn’t be with him when he took his last breath.
- That so many others would get to spend his last days and moments with him instead of me.
- That while he took his last breath, I was living my everyday life not knowing it was the end of his.
- That so many people would know he died before me. It should have been me first.
- I didn’t get to see him look like “him” again.
- My last time I saw him, in my life, he didn’t look like him, close, but not him.
- I would lose so many things in just one moment with those dreadful words.
- I could live through the worst news I’ve ever received.
- I would have to tell my daughters that Daddy was not going to come home.
- I would be a “widow” at 30.
- How much I would hate the word “widow,” and all the implications that go with that word.
- Everything would change.
- I would have to start all over again with life.
- That I could start all over again with life.
- I would lose friends and gain friends.
- Amazing people would walk by my side and help me, lift me up, and guide me on my worst of days.
- I could be happy again.
- How much I would miss him.
- How much I would be angry with him when he isn’t even here, though that’s what I’m most angry about, he isn’t here.
- Life would throw me this big of a curveball.
- That even though I most of the time don’t feel this way, I am strong enough to do this. It sucks that I have to do this, and I most assuredly do not want to do this. But, I can do this.
- That I can be completely fine one moment, and literally seconds later come crashing down with one vision, or thought, or smell, or word, or anything.
- That grief would control my life as much as it does. I try to take it back, but grief gets a ferocious hold on you, and you can’t just easily slip away from its’ grip. It’s powerful, brutal, and painful.
- I hate grief.
I didn’t know any of these things. Sometimes I wonder if I would have done things differently if I would have known he was going to die in advance. I don’t know. Probably some things, like last words, or the last days I spent with him, but they were good words and they were a good four days. So maybe, I think, I’d keep those as is.
I do however know all of these things now. Most of them, I wish I didn’t know. Most of them, I wish no one would ever have to know.
My counselor asked me if I could have been there, in Afghanistan with him that day, though I couldn’t stop him from dying, what would I wish for if I had a magic wand. I told her that I would wish to be the person he had his last conversation with, to have his last words be between us. I just want that moment for him and I. I should have had that. I would wish for that.