Why do I write these? Who do I write them for?

Dear Tim;

Why do I write these posts about grief and loss and death and healing? Why do I write, so openly, about what I went through while you were dying, about what I went through the first year, about what I’m going through now (side note: how has it only been just under two years?). Who am I writing them for?

The answer to both of those are kind of the same thing. I’m writing these for someone, anyone out there, who’s been through anything remotely similar and feels alone. I write these so someone out there can feel connected, can feel seen, can feel less alone. I write these to clear my head in a way that lets other people feeling the same confusion/anger/grief/nothingness that they’re not the only ones who need an outlet.

I don’t write anything I don’t want anyone to read. Believe it or not, I don’t write everything I feel. But I do, as a friend recently said to me, put what I do put out there without regard to what other people might think.

I don’t care if people think I’m moving on from your death too quickly, because I know there are parts of it I’ll never get over. I don’t care if people think I’m grieving too long or too much, because sadly, one day those people will understand. I don’t care if people think I got rid of your things too early, because I know I was putting parts of you out into the world where you would help others and be remembered by your loved ones. I don’t care if people think I should start dating soon, because I’m really kind of liking being single. I don’t care if people think I’m grieving “wrong” because everyone grieves differently and unless you’ve walked a mile in my shoes, you don’t get to judge me.

I’m writing for that person who has walked a mile in my shoes. Or the same mile, in their own shoes.

I do care about reaching people. I do care about making people feel less alone. I do care about people feeling heard and seen. I do care about people realizing they’re not the only one to have complicated feelings.

One thing I’ve learned, Tim, since you died, is that if I thought I was full of complicated and contrasting feelings BEFORE? Good lord. It’s good, though, to talk to other widows and widowers (how do I know so many? fate is cruel.) and find out that I’m not alone. That other people have felt both relief and sorrow at the same time. That other people have felt both peace and regret about the same thing. That other people have felt both unfettered freedom and immobilizing stagnation at the same time.

If I can take even some of that “oh my god, I’m not alone, and I’m not crazy” and pass it on to others?

Then that’s one way, one reason, Tim, that your death will not have been something pointless, something that happened for nothing. If I can take my confusion, my regret, my anger, my sadness, my healing, my rising from the ashes… and make a connection with someone else, so that they don’t feel alone in this? The way other people have allowed me to feel less alone? Then I will have done something good, something for you.

Folx have asked me if I would turn these into a book. Maybe? I did just think of a good title… “They Look Like Big, Good, Strong Hands, Don’t They: A Cranky Gen-X’ers Guide to Navigating Grief”… that’s not too long of a title, is it? Points, if you get the quote.