Real, Actual Politics Aside

Back when we were leading up to the election of Barack Obama, I thought I recognized a readiness of U.S. citizens for something entirely different, and Obama had the face and the charisma. Politics aside, as I still would have been impressed with us (somewhat) if he had been a hardcore Republican loyalist, I knew the idea of "change" was a big part of his following. I stayed up late the night of the election, and I don't mind admitting I got a little choked up when it was announced. We had done it-- not elected another democrat, but voted for change. I have a soft spot for underdogs, and... well, people who looked like me used to own people who looked like him. Go, you, man. Go, you! I was raised to believe in exactly this kind of country, and we did it. I was disappointed and frustrated with Obama sometimes; I was disgusted by the obstruction he faced. I couldn't think of a single job I would still have if I had steadfast refused to work with my boss-- and I am not talking about disagreements or whatever any person would use to completely oversimplify the point-- I'm talking about losing all decorum, turning my back and putting my fingers in my ears like some childish asshole.

Anyway, eight years later we went from decorum and diplomacy to... dumpster-diving for idiocy.

I'm still just all... Fuck... about that one.

The Decade That Got Real

Shortly after my 36th birthday, I was walking across my deck when I had a thought that literally stopped me in my tracks and took my breath.

"I'm getting to the age when people I know are going to start dying."

A few weeks later, my husband was killed when a driver made a left hand turn without looking, or looking twice.

It Was The Cost of Having It All, And I Don't Want to Pay

Only in the mirror, okay?

Understand that I am aware we are not all made the same. My experiences, my thoughts-- they imply nothing about any other woman or any other mother.

I have been a married, stay at home mother. I have also been a married working mom, a single working mom and student, a single working mom, and a widowed mom, working and not. I have lived paycheck-to-paycheck, paycheck-to-minor-miracle-to-paycheck, and I have had some disposable income. I grew up in an era when women could "have it all," and it was taken for granted that we all wanted it "all." I could never figure out what was "wrong" with me because I was never really happy. I was tired, and I had hit 40 before, looking back on my twenties and thirties, I saw a pattern, and following that pattern was an epiphany. Gasp! I never wanted "it all."

My Mom Is Still Gone

I am on the horse. My mom is leading it.

Just a few days short of six weeks since my mother passed, I still feel this is the strangest grief I have ever experienced. I was widowed at 36. Three years later, I lost my stepfather of 30 years. Then I lost my grandfather. Then I lost a good friend who was far too young to die. 20 days after that, my mom was gone, and just like that. When my husband died, many people disappeared from my life. There is a saying that widowhood rewrites your address book, and that happens because... reasons. Still, the people who stayed with me never expected anything from me, but they did understand I was still grieving months later. A precious one or two who have never lost a spouse understand my grief, while far less intense, will never go away.

For The Secrets and Untellable Stories

"The very ink with which history is written is merely fluid prejudice," (Mark Twain). 

"History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon," (Napoleon).

History is written by the winners, we have heard. However, sometimes it is written by the losers, and I mean that in the pejorative. Some history is never written at all, and that can be due to laws meant to protect the innocent from malicious and damaging accusations, but often insulates those with the most resources or leverage. Some stories are never told, as those involved would rather let them die a quiet death. Despite the romantic notions generally taught as fact to the young and still naive, justice can be illusive; the truth can be believable but not provable and thus rendered useless; and sometimes neither justice nor truth are worth the inevitable injury in the brawl. The universe is not always as clever as Hollywood, writing in that eleventh hour twist that saves the day.

The Mythical Grief

If you have delicate sensibilities, leave now, because there is nothing gentle about grief and I refuse to pretend there is.

Nearly six years ago, I found myself in a support group for young widows. After learning so many of their stories and frustrations, all the while living my own, one thought kept occurring to me: human beings have dealt with grief for as long as human beings have been human beings. How on earth do we not have this down by now? How is it that so many family members and friends and employers and oft visited grocery store clerks have no idea what to do with or say to someone so shattered by a death?

I don't have that answer, but five days before the sixth anniversary of my late husband's death, a friend of mine was killed under circumstances so similar, any description is beyond words-- even for someone who loves to weave them together in their most effective form. I didn't get to grieve only my friend because his death ripped open a still very tender scar, and so many stored away memories oozed into the center of my focus. When my friend's widow posted a raw response to the well-meaning, I felt her pain, her torment, and I felt again my own. I remembered, why? Why? Why don't people understand this?

Let us look over this Mythical Grief, and let us not flinch.

The Letter To My Twenty Year Old Self

Hey You.

Recently, I have seen this question going around the Internet: What would you tell your younger self if you could?  I've thought about it for a while, and at first, I was pretty sure whatever I would say would depend on my mood at the moment. When I let myself imagine it, I imagined I would grin, pat you on the back, and then walk away. I imagined I would sigh, hug you tight, kiss your forehead, and then walk away. It occurred to me that no matter my mood, I always walked away. Why? I wondered more about why I always walked away than I did about the things I would say. Then I realized the best thing you will ever learn to do is find your own way.

I couldn't see myself saying that to you because nothing is going to teach you this lesson, and all that it implies, better than the day when you are made to understand your only other option is to lay down and give up on life and all that it is. You won't choose that, I know, so I don't really have much to say.

But I think seeing me and hearing me speak might make one era or another a little easier if only because even absent of why or how, you know you will survive. So, I think I will say this, something maybe inconsequential to you finding your own way, but something you won't see coming: Some people are going to place your value in your looks, and you are going to know who they are in singular moments, when you realize they like you, maybe even adore you, but they don't even know who you are. You will pay attention to that, as you should, because in exactly this same way, you will also discover those who value you not for you, but for what they believe they can take from you.

You are also going to grow up in a culture that persistently reinforces the idea that your greatest value, sometimes your only value, is in your youthful appearance which will never be good enough not to need something more. You will not know just how much this affects you. In fact, one day, when you catch a glimpse of age in the mirror -- the new lines in your face, the new location of your girls, the way your knees look a little odd, and the way, now, you wave with your entire arm -- the affect it's had on you is going to take you by surprise. Your sincerity is going to make you both a little sad and a little nauseous when you wonder if you are as attractive to your husband as you used to be, and will he love you every bit as much, or better yet more, when he can catch a glimpse of the girl you once were only occasionally in the light in your eyes.

Though it won't last long, or maybe it will come and go, you will go through a phase when you are almost daring him not to notice the new dress, the new hairstyle, or whatever effort you've put forth, and when he fails, you will disappear in a huff to emerge in sweats and a T-shirt. By now, you realize yes, you will always be a little absurd, but don't worry -- you will learn to love it, or to at least maintain a sense of humor about your own foolishness. You will remember it is unfair to them and no good to you to look to others to confirm or deny your own strengths and insecurities. You will remember that your value could be naught but an illusion if it isn't what you have found and cultivated within yourself. One day, when he doesn't know you are watching, you will see him put your needs first in a way you were not sure you could have been so selfless, and you will remember what you value most in others, and especially, that man. You will not only let go of the trivial, but you will embrace age and all that it is. You will even hope to grow very old and very shriveled because as your 42 year old self writes to your 22 year old self, somehow your 82 year old self looks on, knowing those lines around your eyes-- they mean you loved and you lived alive.

I love you, girl.

Us.