Waves...

Grief comes in waves.  We have no control over when it will wash over us and bring us crashing to our knees.

Yesterday began like any other day lately.  Conner and I got ready for school, I worked all day, ran errands during prep hour, and Conner had a grief counseling appointment after school.  So, it was a regular day for us, sad as usual, but "regular".  We stayed busy.

On our way home from the counselor, we got a call that the man who is leasing part of our farm needed help with his cows.  The truck that delivered them became stuck in one of our creek crossings and the herd had been turned out.  No gates were closes.  Electric fences were not "hot" and ready.  No water was available to the location where the herd was to be kept.  So, Conner and I helped move the herd.  Then we watched as Matt moved the truck from the creek via a bulldozer.

As Conner and I sat in the Ranger at a distance, it just washed over me.  Reality.  I'm 36 years old and alone. I cannot do this on my own.  I cannot logically take care of the massive to-do list that comes with this farm.

The love of my life, who could always "fix" any problems, who always made me feel safe, is gone.  Forever.  He's never coming back.

I no longer get to hold his hand.  I no longer get to hear his voice, or call him when I have something to talk about. I no longer have him to lean on through everything.  I no longer have a partner in raising our son.  I no longer have confidence or any sense of security.

The weight became too heavy all at once and the tears became a torrent.  I just started losing it.  I haven't lost control in a while.  I can't.  I have to stay "strong" for Conner and it sometimes gets to be too much.  I'm not strong.  I don't feel strong at all.  I feel like all I want to do is cry and hide from the world.  I feel like I want to grieve more but can't because I'm expected to go to work, to get dressed every day, to "move forward".

I have read several things these last few months that deal with grief and moving forward from a loss of this magnitude.  It all is hogwash.  I'm sick of reading it.  I'm sick of seeing these widows who seem to magically bounce back in just a short amount of time.  I even read a blog post the other day from a lady who admitted that she began dating again only a few months after her husband's passing.

Not that I'm "dogging" on these women.  I'm not.

I'm envious.

I'm envious of their abilities to "bounce back".  I'm envious of their made up faces and their bright eyes that don't look haggard and exhausted. I'm envious of their finances that allow them to begin traveling the world.  I'm envious of their positive outlook.

For me, that isn't reality.  My reality is no where near beautiful, peaceful, happy, promising, or what I ever imagined it would be.

My reality is harsh.  I'm struggling.  I have too many bills to pay.  I have too much debt that well surpasses my salary.  I have sleepless nights.  I have worries about my son.  I have people who I know without a doubt have ulterior motives in their "kindness" toward me and Conner.  I know there are people who want our farm.  I know there are people who are just waiting for me to fail so that they may "pounce".  I have a gut of nerves all day long, every single day.

I know I'm not supposed to worry.  I know that I'm supposed to give all my worries to God, to lay them at His feet, and let His Grace and Mercy surround me and carry me.  I know all that.  But it doesn't seem to help.  It's like my brain, my heart, and my life just are in a constant struggle about what I sincerely do KNOW and the fear of the UNKNOWN.

I have a fear of failure.  Not just a fear of "farm life" failure, but also of raising my son well.  Of ever being able to "bounce back" and "move forward".  Of ever finding true happiness again, not in another man, but just in myself.  At this point in my life, and I know it's early still, but I just do not see myself ever finding love again.  I have no desire to.  I was too much in love with Mike.  I still am.  I have a fear of being able to make it without a wave knocking me to my knees.

All this hit me last night like a tsunami.

Not just a tiny wave that gently brushes your feet.  Not a small wave that is enough just to make you move a little, but still let you stand on your own two feet.  Not a wave that will carry you closer to shore for safety.  But a freaking tsunami.

I broke.  I called my sister and could barely speak when she answered.  The first thing I said was, "I just need to feel sorry for myself for a minute."

She listened as I cried to her, in sobs that left my words broken.  She listened patiently.  I cried out loud to her, "I can't believe he's gone.  I just had him and he's gone. I want him back so bad."

My life has not been a fairy tale, I can promise you.  I know so many people have so many worse things in their lives, but good grief.  I was finally happy.

It just seems like yesterday.  It seems like he should still just come back home from work any minute.  His truck still sits in its parking spot next to mine.  His clothes still hang in the closet.  His razor and deodorant are still kept in his bathroom drawer.  His office is still full of his wastewater books and equipment.  His smell is still on the last pair of clothes that were in our hamper the day he left.  His tools and equipment are still in the barn.  His coffee cups still sit in the cabinet, and I can't drink from them.  I look at them but can't drink from them.  His thermos still sits on the counter.  His boots still sit in the utility room.  His rain jacket still hangs on the hook and his Carhartt vest still rests in the living room.  His old Marine Corps ring still hangs around my neck.

He is still here.  But he is not.  And that is terrible.

I can't wait until the day we meet again.  I am going to hug him so tightly and never let him go again.

I love and miss you more than words, Babe.  I promise, Now, Forever, and Always times Infinity.

Love,
Veronica