I’ve denied my loneliness.
I don’t even know how long I’ve been lonely. I haven’t allowed myself to feel it most times.
This past weekend I took my sons to camp with home education friends. It was the type of gathering that Mary loved so much, with tons of food, fun, adventure, and laughter. I had her favorite camp chair, coffee mug, and the tent we decided to buy, but didn’t receive until after she passed away. Camping always brings out Mary stories and every campfire is like going home with her.
I’ve lived these four years without her as a prideful single dad. I’ve been setting up and breaking down camps with little adult help and I’ve felt strong. That’s changing as I see I have a romantic partner who I can lean on and trust with tasks I assumed were my responsibility. She wasn’t with me this weekend, but my friends were generous with their help. I’ve grown a better practice of accepting help, but I still felt weakness. As I drove home (on schedule, thanks to my friends), I was overwhelmed by feelings of inadequacy. Triggered by wet tarps and sandy bike tires, it ran right down to not being the type of husband who could protect his wife’s life.
That’s one of the shittiest things about grief. It’ll take new feelings and tie them up with the past or some impossible present. I’m a better man than the one who lost Mary. What if I had been better for her? What would my life look like now? Then comes the guilt of not appreciating the wonderful people and things in my life now. Then none of it makes sense and I’m just crying behind the wheel of a 19-foot RV as I make my way to play soccer.
At least I know how this goes. I keep the truck on the road, let the tears do their thing, and feel a whole lot better, if a little drained.
I performed well in the game, but the emotional toll weakened me enough to bring on a nagging blueness complete with brain fog and body aches. The next day I learned that I had missed a dedication ceremony for Mary. The storm of emotions has held my recovery in slow motion. Three days later, this morning, I finally received the answer about my loneliness. I had been hiding from it. I didn’t want to admit that I was counting on anyone for anything. I’m now accepting my loneliness and being honest with myself about who I can lean on and who I cannot.
Some of it is clear and some not, but I needed to return to this space and start a new chapter of healing. That’s the greatest thing about the shittiest thing about grief: if you are lucky enough to turn the pain into healing, you will forever have a source of improved spiritual, mental, and physical health.