Once upon an Eclipse

Dear Reader,

Please excuse my lengthy absence. After revealing the end of the chapter I was no longer sure where to go and truthfully I was basking in the sense of weightlessness I was experiencing. I have free floated long enough and now I know, it is time to illuminate the corners of my experience, like moonlight illuminating the dark of night.

Sincerely Yours,

Lauren

I have spoken of it before, the mission, my intent with regards to sharing my story, to show the light points in the darkest parts of life, my life, so that you may find them in yours. It was the light of this past full moon that showed me where I was still hiding and where to go next. And even after what felt like the clearest brightest illumination, I sat, I held back, I wondered and worried. Worry, as it turns out, is one of the most useless and paralyzing activities of the human imagination.

We have officially made it through the season of firsts, mostly unscathed, and as we came upon the anniversary, a day I had to be reminded of, we took a shift toward final rest mode. A military funeral, of the the highest honor, in the most hallowed ground, befitting a hero’s burial takes time, a LOT of time. Just over a year will have in fact passed from the time of entering the pool to consecration in Arlington’s ground. As that day rapidly approaches it has been like someone has hit refresh on the messages of condolences, remembrances, and this must be so difficults.

The truth of the matter is that in a year so much has changed, including my ability to speak honestly about this situation, and there are some things I need to get off my chest. I feel as if I am breaking the glass ahead of the emergency in a way, because maybe no one will notice or be affected, maybe I have worried so long about perceptions that it is just old tired imagination rising up again, maybe I’m right and you will wonder at the way my grief acts…

So, in no particular order:

1. I have never really been sad over my loss, I have been a lot of other things including angry and mostly relieved, but I don’t ache for what is missing and I have a hard time hearing people say they are sorry for it when I am not.
2. Navigating my children’s grief has been the only true difficulty, the polarity of their experiences astounding as one feels sadness over vividly remembering the hurt, the monster, the struggle, and one in agony feeling the void of love, missing the spirit of camaraderie, and silly antics.
3. I have secretly worried that I will be angry when presented with your grief in real time; angry for the fact that those last few years you got the best and I got what was left; angry that your guilt over what you did or did not do to intervene or be involved or at the very least aware colors your grief; angry that I may spend my own energy assuring you that everything happens for a reason; angry at subtly being told what my experience is supposed to look like by well meaning words of condolence.
4. I have spent a good part of the year wrapped my own shroud of guilt over not being the widow that most everyone expects me to be, for being ready to live and never donning the appropriate mourner’s clothes, and I have been subtly dulling my experience because of it.
5. I am happy. I am fulfilled. I am in love with this new phase of life. I am tired of hiding.

By the light of the full moon, amidst the chaos of my long overdue master bathroom renovation I realized something, that in order to live free, as my New Year’s intention proclaimed, I would have to shed the guilt. So I sat on my newly tiled floor, in front of a fully healed shotgun blast to fiberglass shower insert, and as I coated it in fresh paint I rolled over my guilt, I released the need to appear how any one else needs me to appear and I embraced that moment for what it was, a healing of the oldest wounds, a return to my own wholeness. I had shed many tears in frustration over that shower in a years time, as recently as a week prior to adding the glossy sheen of new epoxy-acrylic paint, as I struggled over how to fix it. Like most things this year it boiled down to ripping it apart completely, starting fresh as if it had never happened, or allowing the chasm to be drawn back together, slowly, methodically, layer by layer building up the substrate and filling in the cracks, allowing the old to remain, to be rebuilt. Like most things this year, it was the latter in which I found healing and completion.

And at no point did I go it alone. Healing is an activity that takes tremendous energy, whether the wound lies in the physical, emotional, or spiritual body makes no difference, sometimes we just need a little extra support from outside of ourselves. There have been sources for me over the year and through the years as the rollercoaster left me feeling scattered, dazed, and confused, but there has been one in particular that found me under the light of a Waxing Gibbous and it has caused a glorious ruckus.

Connection is the most precious gift we can give one another, it is a biological imperative. We long for it from birth, it feeds us physiologically, psychologically, and emotionally and if you are not sure that you agree just observe a mother and her baby, please watch the face of that child as their eyes meet and report your findings later. When those deep connections are severed we suffer, the feeling of disconnect a close associate of PTSD and C-PTSD. We spend tremendous amounts of time looking for other humans that spark that deep sense of comfort, of knowing, and of acceptance,  the true connections that foster the conditions that allow us to be our fullest expressions of ourselves. In my own experience that connection has been a lot like the purge of a New Years’ tidying revolution a la Marie Kondo. I drag everything out of the closet and pile it up into a mess, while my mirror asks me very frankly if that particular item/idea/attitude sparks joy in my life. It is a mirror who’s arms are much stronger than my own, capable of holding space for me as I break into pieces and then softly gathers me back up and sits with me until the glue begins to stick again, the power and importance of which has been immeasurable as I have navigated all of this new territory.