I am....

Grief doesn’t come with a checklist. I’m fully aware that if it did it would be never ending - written on a roll of paper that stretches to infinity.  This the first time that I’ve let myself feel grief deeply without working to shove it into a box that I then put in another, sturdier, box and then stick it on a shelf never to be revisited. And, damnit, the act of feeling grief this time has caused my shelf full of boxes to fall down and every single one of them has opened and the things that have spilled out are wild. Why am I sad about miscarriages I had in the 90s and remembering details I haven’t thought of in years? Why do I suddenly grieve the loss of my aunts and uncle more deeply than I did 10-20 years ago when they died tragically young? Why am I painfully aware of all of the losses that my friends have gone through that I didn’t show up for because I was avoiding feeling? Why am I terrified to mourn publicly because if I open these boxes I’m not sure how I’ll ever put everyth

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

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

I've never been dog person.  I swear.  They're loud, rambunctious, messy, attention whores, who slobber and people spend way too much money on them.  But eight years ago my family was struggling to find our joy after the divorce and then someone tried to break into my house.  So, I decided to get a dog.  A big, protective,vicious, bundle of wiggles.....Ebi, the golden retriever. Almost instantly there was a change in my daughter's smile.  My son became more patient and kind. I no longer felt like my house was a tomb that I rattled around in when the kids were at their dad's for the weekend.  Ebi became the catalyst for me to leave the house and take a walk or go to the dog park on my horrible self inflicted blind dates .   She was the litmus test for those guys. If she hated them, they were gone.  When she met Husband 2.0 she fell in love and I knew he was a keeper. And so, last week, when we were in the throes of preparing for a week filled with the joyous celebrat