I am....

On December 14th I announced I was leaving real estate to explore new opportunities. I sent a blast announcement via social media and email to my past clients and my sphere. What I didn’t say in that message is that I was taking a break for my own mental health. I was burned out, I was exhausted, I was fighting through a depressive episode, I was spending a lot of time looking at career paths I might enjoy and, while I was good at real estate, I no longer found any joy doing it.  My plan was to take January and February to just relax, focus on introspection, detox from my phone and email. Maybe read a book, take some more photos, go on long, relaxing walks. My kids showed up on December 18th. We had a wonderful holiday that included bringing Grandpa to our new house for the first (and only) time. The knots in my shoulders started to unwind and I could feel some level of stress abating. The kids flew back to their respective homes for New Years, Pete and I had friends over for the first

In the early days after Pete’s death I searched for “ways to navigate estates without going through probate”.  I also searched for “easy prep meals for one” and “where to donate glasses after someone dies”. Because of those searches I’m inundated on all social media platforms with “how to widow” content and occasionally I take the click-bait and end up down a rabbit hole.  One of those adventures lead me to the Holmes-Rahe Stress Inventory , a 43 question survey designed to determine your stressors from the last 12 months and, if your score is above 300, you have an 80% higher chance of a health breakdown in the next two years.  My score was 572.  Their recommendation to lower my stress? “Avoid future crisis situations.”  If I gave blind credence to this type of derivative test I would become stressed about getting out of stress. I would work to control that which cannot be controlled. I would speed towards that health breakdown. I was tempted to just toss the results aside. Except, I

Flashback photo memories are a bittersweet gut punch every morning. I’ve considered ignoring them but I think it’s important, for me at least, to see the reminder, feel the feeling(s), and acknowledge both the joy and the grief that the photos bring me.  Pete and I went on some incredible trips. There are a lot of photos. A LOT.  Right now I’m in the midst of the four year anniversary of our one month trip to Europe. We were going to go back next year for our ten year anniversary.  What I’ve struggled with this week is this question: “How do you bail on a life that includes Trdelnik ice cream cones?”  Obviously, it’s not just the cone. It’s the vacations, the ballgames, the family events, the quiet walks on the perfect spring evening when the clouds are so puffy and white they look like they were drawn by Pixar artists? How do you tap out of that life? How do you make that choice? Then you remember that mental illness doesn’t give a shit about an ice cream cone.  Prior even to his fina

The anguish of loss is, for the loss of a better word, weird. There’s the initial shock, the overwhelm of the first days and weeks, and then there’s the moments that you think “Oh, I need to tell him that my dad’s surgery went well” that simply punch you in the gut.  And then, in the butterfly effect of bullshit that is suicide, you’re reminded that you’re still so unbelievably angry with your loved one. Can you even use the phrase “loved one” if you’re this angry?   When I dive into the “why am I angry (today)” question it really falls more under the fact I feel betrayed. Pete was supposed to be my support system as I was the support system for my parents. That was the deal. He was to help do the heavy lifting, literally, of things around their house. He was supposed to be around to listen as I shared my fears surrounding the ninth surgery for my dad in the last two years. He was supposed to the simple things like caring for our dog while I drove with my parents to out of town appoint

Easter has never really been my holiday. I gave up religion years ago and I gave up this holiday in exchange for Thanksgiving in my divorce negotiations. So, while today is a holiday, it’s not one that I associated with any real traditions but it is the first one that I’ve flown solo. Maybe it’s a gift to have a gentle introduction into all of the social media happy family posts be of pastel colors and jelly beans and that by the time we reach turkeys and trees I’ll be settled into this new routine.  I think in this whole transition I’m also coming to terms with the fact that I’ve never truly been on my own.  I met my first husband at 18, married him at 20, had kids at 22 and 23, divorced at 33, had primary custody of the kids as a single mom, remarried at 38, widowed at 46. And, while I wouldn’t change a thing about the path that led to my children, I think that the challenges I’m facing right now might be easier to navigate if I’d spent more than a minute (and part of every other wee

I am a 46 year old widow. I am neither a young widow, with a life of tragic possibility and young children to raise, or an older widow mourning the loss of the only love she’s ever known. I am someone who deeply loved a very damaged man for ten years before he took his own life.  I am finding that I am struggling to not quantify our relationship by the limited amount of years together that we actually had. I did plan on growing old with this man. I’d stopped dying my hair, stopped wearing anything that wasn’t designed for cozy living, hell, I started wearing Crocs.  I was comfortable in my skin for, maybe, the first time in my life. He was my favorite travel companion. We had found a peaceful home that we both loved. He had his first grand baby and another on the way - I got to be “Grandrea”.  He was a protector, a bit of a clown, definitely rough around the edges. We challenged each other, we were both in our own therapy, battling our own demons, talking them through, getting stronger