Grief is a Testament

"I keep telling myself that the ongoing grief is a testament to how loved he is.
You are not abnormal. Grief is an ebb and flow. A cycle of acceptance and disbelief that never ends."

I could tell you that someone wise wrote that. That it is the thought of someone I look up to. That is partially true. I wrote it. And when it comes to the topic of grief, I am wiser now than I was 3 years ago, that's for sure. Some days I think my sheer survival is to be commended - the fact that I have maintained a level of normalcy for our kids and I have helped to build a life they are enjoying and thriving in. 

It still surprises me the amount of understanding that is lacking for those experiencing grief. The judgement that lingers. The firm ideas that people who have never tread this path hold so tightly. The looks, oh, the looks.....

Sometimes people don't understand that I still grieve Tim. Maybe their timeline for my grief has passed. Maybe they think that my love for Jason has somehow erased my love for Tim. Sometimes I hear people get frustrated with others who still express their grief with tears. They judge how the other person grieves - they think it should be scheduled or secluded. I still cry. Even in public. I know a lot of people still cry about missing Tim. They wish they could call him and they cry because they can't. They think of the fun times they had together and the realization that those times can't happen again brings them to tears. They remember him as a child, and growing into a young man and an adult and the reality that they will never see him as an old man has their eyes brimming with tears. Me, I think about all of those things, and I think about all that he is missing. I think about how much we loved each other and the unfairness that he is not here to experience his 3 beautiful children growing up, that we don't get to fulfill all those dreams - it makes me cry. I'm crying as I type this, actually. 

It's true, I believe our tears and our memories show how loved - how missed he is. It is a testament to our love, to the love that so many people gave him in his lifetime. 

This week we will celebrate what would have been Tim's 46th birthday. A trigger. A milestone. A reason to celebrate that he lived. A reason to mourn that he died. It's complicated, and even the other widows in my life know that I can't explain it and even though they identify on some level, they can't fully understand it. 

So, please, don't judge me for being stoic. For sobbing uncontrollably on my way to school. For being lost in thought when you want to tell me what a hard week you've had. For being stand-offish or needy. For not wanting to meet for lunch or begging you to come over for dinner. Maybe I need my space or maybe I need to be held like a child. Either way, my reactions are normal. 

Grief doesn't go away. I likened it once to alcoholism. Just because you aren't drinking right now doesn't mean you are not an alcoholic. Just because I am living life, loving and raising my children doesn't mean I don't grieve Tim. Grief is a never-ending cycle. There is no cure. There is no end. It is an ebb and flow, and those closest to me know my triggers and understand what I need when I'm having one of those days. The rest of the world is free to be oblivious. It is okay. I kind of prefer it that way. 

What is not okay is to pass judgement on someone because their grief does not meet your standards. That is hurtful, and frankly oppressive.