A work in progress

My active blog is here.

Much of my journaling about the WidowRoad has taken the form of posts to a website for Young Widows. I'm really pleased with some of the things I've written there, and I want to pull them all together. Some of the pieces describe my personal insights into the journey; others are expressions of sheer pain.

I've already collected a number of them into a WordPerfect file, because I dreaded losing them should something happen to the widow board. I will start posting those on this blog; the dates on them are the dates on which they were originally posted on the board. Other writings will be added slowly. Entries before January 2005 are from emails exchanged with friends.

This will truly reflect my journey on the WidowRoad, a road which does not exist except as I walk it, a road which is a work in progress.

Since these are all past posts, I will indicate here when I last added one to the site. That way if anyone really is visiting this space, you'll know right away if I've added something.

Last updated: May 15, 2006
I added an entry for August 2004.

And now for something completely different ...

This post generated a far greater response than I ever imagined: It's taken on a life of its own.

Confessions of a Widow

One of the awesome things about the YWBB is that we know we can say things here that we can't say elsewhere... things we MIGHT tell our best friend, but would never say to our family.

With that in mind... (hehehehehe)

• I am hornier now than I have been at any time since my mid 20s.
• My kids have been eating fish sticks and canned soup for a week.
• I really don't CARE what people think about my absence from church for the last few months.
• I bought my first "toy" 9 months after Nick died.
• I have no idea how much money I have in my checking account.
• I haven't worn a bra all weekend, not even to the grocery store -- and those of you who know me know how "significant" that is.

Other confessions generated by responses to my original post:

• I have consumed more alcohol in the 18 months since Nick died than I did in the 13 years we were together.
• Ramen, lots of ramen.
• According to Quicken, I spent $1,773.92 at my local liquor stores in 2005. Granted, I had help consuming all that wine, vodka, and B&B, but that doesn't even include drinks at friends' houses or widder dinners.
• My mouth has become a sewer. I never cared much for foul language, but now ... egads
• I won't pour myself a glass of wine in the afternoon ... so I just swig it from the bottle.
• Shave my legs? Only when someone who matters is likely to see them! (I shave my pits slightly more often.)
• I spend more waking hours in front of the computer than anywhere else.
• I've started spanking my 3YO something my DH and I agreed we would never do.
• As a side effect of trying to reduce the CFCs* from my diet, I have developed a craving for gummis... gummi worms, gummi bears, gummi fish, sour grubs, and so on....
  * CFCs = calories from chocolate

"How do we continue on? How do we do this?"

My response to a widder on the YWBB:

You don't "continue on." You don't do "this." "This" is so much bigger than any of us can comprehend. So you take a deep breath and do the only thing you can: Step gently into the next moment. You can do that, and you know you can, because you have made it this far.

When I was new to the WidowRoad, I used the analogy of a sidewalk, with each square representing a moment, a minute, an hour, a day... a relentless infinity of time. The horrible thing was that I could see countless squares of the sidewalk stretching on and on before me, and Nick wasn't in any of them. I couldn't bear to look up as I walked, seeing all those empty squares in front of me. I kept my head down, my eyes on my feet; I focused on the moment right in front of me, the task right before me.

Sometimes, even that was too much for me. But gradually I could lift my head and look back to see how far I'd come. Gradually, I could look around to see the world around me. Gradually I could look at the road in front of me. It still pains me that Nick isn't there; I still hate every bit of it. But I can do it. I know I can do it. So I take my own advice and do the only thing I can: Breathe deeply and step gently into the next moment.