This weekend I went and watched the Avengers.
It has been out for a couple weeks now but I've been putting it off, not sure I'd see it all.
Mostly because I didn't want to be the idiot sobbing at the back of the theatre blowing her nose at the funny parts or when Loki makes his epic appearance all badass and whatnot.
Turns out those fears were completely justified. I was and I did. As a random sidenote - it's really hard to see through 3D glasses when they are misted over with salty tears.
No, it was not a sad movie.
In fact, it was pretty cool. No. That's not right. It was amazing. And epic. And everything Craig and I have waited for all these years.
Craig was a comic book nerd. Which amused me to no end considering how much of a jock he was. Like many a closetted comic book nerd, he hoarded his collection possessivey and spent hour after endless hour painstakingly caring for them and savouring them. He would never let me read more than one at a time - something that always reminded me of my own father and his precious collection.
After a couple years of dating I finally gave up and started helping him with his collection, tracking down rare editions, wasting hours and hours at garage sales and farmers' markets searching for missing pieces. It became our favourite go-to activity for most weekends. I even attending Comic Con with him one year and was introduced to a whole new world. A scary, scary world. Just kidding. But not.
We started following the superhero movie craze long before it was a craze and obsessed over every detail of every movie, often seeing them several times in theatres in their opening weeks. We loved Iron Man, didn't care for the Hulk. Superman wasn't relatable but Spiderman was just like us. We argued over plot twists and adherence to the comics, who was too short or too serious or too whatever. Which detail was missed, which was overdone, which was just right.
Nothing excited Craig more than knowing looking forward to the Avengers movie, which was far too many years in the coming.
We theorized for hours about who'd be in it, which superheroes would be best, who the baddy would be.
We loved it.
And, of course, Loki was his favourite villain of all time. He loved him. Poor Loki, always the underdog, unloved, not wanted, always struggling, always failing. For some reason, Craig loved him more than any of the good guys. Appreciated that Loki was just born at the wrong time, in the wrong place, bullied, ignored.
When Iron Man II came out, I struggled to see it. I didn't enjoy it. It was too hard.
By the time Thor came out enough time had passed I didn't feel too bad. Of course it helped that neither of us really liked him as a character and didn't see it going anywhere (so much for that).
But The Big Avengers Movie was what we really wanted, anticipated, couldn't wait for.
So I sat there in the theatre this weekend, sobbing amongst the fellow nerds, oh so grateful for the ridiculous volume of the movie that nobody could hear me over.
It's not fair.
It's not fair that Craig waited so long, wanted to see this so bad, and can't.
It's not fair that they waited forever to make this movie, making him miss it.
It's not fair that the world kept going, that movies were still made, even after he was gone.
It's not fair that the things he loved were allowed to carry on without him, as if nothing had happened.
And it was not fair that I had to see it without him.
That we didn't get to gush over Loki, his absolute favourite villain, that he had to miss.
That we didn't get to squeal together over "Clench up, Legolas".
That he didn't get to roll his eyes at me over my love of Mark Ruffalo.
It hurt so much to see that without him. To try to enjoy something we should have been enjoying together. To reap the rewards of all his hard nerdwork he put into getting me up to speed on these characters, without him there to pat himself on the back for it.
There are so many things he misses now.
Sometimes I hope, wherever he is, he still gets to see them. That it's not so unimportant that he doesn't care. Or maybe I don't hope that. It's hard to say.
I just wish he was here.
I wish he was sitting next to me.
So I could be cheering with the rest of the crowd, instead of crying.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Bill of Rights for Grief
(Source: http://family.lifegoesstrong.com/article/bill-rights-grieving)
1. You have the right to take whatever path you take through your grief without judgment.
2. You have the right to ignore or incorporate any or all of the MOUNTAINS of advice you will get.
3. You have the right to say: "No thank you."
4. You have the right to grieve for whatever you have lost, including things you never had but ache for, like phantom limb pain.
5. You have the right to ask people to bring you pizza, not platitudes.
6. You have the right to your own definition of grief. For someone else the loss may have some unknowable reason; it may be a journey, a blessing 'in disguise', bad karma, a teachable moment, part of a plan, a test, a process, a choice. It doesn't have to be any of those things for you. It can simply be where you are at the time. Or it can be senseless, stupid, meaningless and profoundly awful.
7. You have the right not to be grateful, reasonable, inspired or inspiring.
8. You have the right not to feel or believe or be comforted by any of the following: "he's in a better place; his work here was done; she's in your heart; it's a blessing; it's no one's fault; time heals all wounds; you'll find a new one; it could have been worse."
9. You have the right to buzz around, filling your life with activities and people so you don't have to feel a thing.
10. You have the right to feel what you can feel when you can feel it. Be numb when you are numb. Seek comfort when you can stand to. Sometimes the deep fog of grief can make all intimacy too painful - any feelings unbearable. You have the right not to bear them even when everyone around you says you MUST FEEL YOUR FEELINGS OR YOU WILL NEVER MOVE ON.
11. You have the right not to "move on."
12. You have the right to ungodly, ugly, blind rage.
13. You have the right to feel complete, utter hoplessness and despair, and to say – out loud – over and over, that it will never get better, you will never feel better – without everyone shushing you.
14. You have the right to eat or sing or say whatever you want.
15. You have the right to be inalterably changed. The person you were before the death of your loved one is gone. You are now someone else. You don't know who yet. It's your right to find out.
16. You have the right to experience the many tricky, shape-shifting forms grief takes in whatever order you experience them: Here it looks like rage. There it takes the shape of obsession. It has many forms. They are all true. They are all lies.
17. You have the right to stay where you are. Sometimes there are no signs at all and you are moving through grief's darkest depths without knowing it. It's like starting on the bottom floor of an elevator in the deepest core of the earth. Each floor you go up, the doors open, only to reveal more darkness. It all looks and feels the same, but it is not. You are moving toward where you need to be.
18. You have the right to self-pity, selfishness, self-loathing, self-awareness. You have the right to be YOURSELF. Deep grief is a profoundly lonely experience, and yet, it binds us all. We all walk beside you, which will give you comfort when you are ready.
1. You have the right to take whatever path you take through your grief without judgment.
2. You have the right to ignore or incorporate any or all of the MOUNTAINS of advice you will get.
3. You have the right to say: "No thank you."
4. You have the right to grieve for whatever you have lost, including things you never had but ache for, like phantom limb pain.
5. You have the right to ask people to bring you pizza, not platitudes.
6. You have the right to your own definition of grief. For someone else the loss may have some unknowable reason; it may be a journey, a blessing 'in disguise', bad karma, a teachable moment, part of a plan, a test, a process, a choice. It doesn't have to be any of those things for you. It can simply be where you are at the time. Or it can be senseless, stupid, meaningless and profoundly awful.
7. You have the right not to be grateful, reasonable, inspired or inspiring.
8. You have the right not to feel or believe or be comforted by any of the following: "he's in a better place; his work here was done; she's in your heart; it's a blessing; it's no one's fault; time heals all wounds; you'll find a new one; it could have been worse."
9. You have the right to buzz around, filling your life with activities and people so you don't have to feel a thing.
10. You have the right to feel what you can feel when you can feel it. Be numb when you are numb. Seek comfort when you can stand to. Sometimes the deep fog of grief can make all intimacy too painful - any feelings unbearable. You have the right not to bear them even when everyone around you says you MUST FEEL YOUR FEELINGS OR YOU WILL NEVER MOVE ON.
11. You have the right not to "move on."
12. You have the right to ungodly, ugly, blind rage.
13. You have the right to feel complete, utter hoplessness and despair, and to say – out loud – over and over, that it will never get better, you will never feel better – without everyone shushing you.
14. You have the right to eat or sing or say whatever you want.
15. You have the right to be inalterably changed. The person you were before the death of your loved one is gone. You are now someone else. You don't know who yet. It's your right to find out.
16. You have the right to experience the many tricky, shape-shifting forms grief takes in whatever order you experience them: Here it looks like rage. There it takes the shape of obsession. It has many forms. They are all true. They are all lies.
17. You have the right to stay where you are. Sometimes there are no signs at all and you are moving through grief's darkest depths without knowing it. It's like starting on the bottom floor of an elevator in the deepest core of the earth. Each floor you go up, the doors open, only to reveal more darkness. It all looks and feels the same, but it is not. You are moving toward where you need to be.
18. You have the right to self-pity, selfishness, self-loathing, self-awareness. You have the right to be YOURSELF. Deep grief is a profoundly lonely experience, and yet, it binds us all. We all walk beside you, which will give you comfort when you are ready.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Two Years
Two years is no time at all. Two years is forever. Time can slip like water through your fingers or freeze like ice in your veins.
The mind plays tricks on you, whether you are awake or asleep. In my dreams, without my walls of logic and rationale to protect it, my mind slips backwards in time, lulls me into a world where none of this happened. I still wake up, reach across an empty bed, and feel you die all over again. Though I still do not see you outright in my dreams, I can sense you there, just out of reach. I wake up sweating, panicked, terrified that something terrible is about to happen. Then I remember: it already has. Even in the light of day, I am fooled. Little things, slips of focus. For a brief second, I am eager to tell you something. Then I remember. I drive a road we drove a thousand times and it is like dipping into our past and for that one small second I forget that you are not there with me.
I don’t just think of you from time to time. People assume that the passing of hours, months, and years means that you will slip from conscious thought. But you don’t. You are always there. I talk to you a hundred times a day. Whispered words, sad smiles, bits of my day I want to store up and save for you in a story like I used to. You never answer back. At most, I hear your little sigh, “Oh Sal.” It is not enough. It will never be enough.
Time trudges on without you. I have recovered from the initial shock of this. That time itself did not collapse when you left. It should have. Instead, the world carried on as though nothing had happened. As though the most important part of it didn’t suddenly disappear. Politicians bicker, babies are born, bills must be paid. Many times it is like watching through a frosted pane of glass. I see it all happening as though it is happening to someone else. Why does this part of my life often feel like it is the dream and before was actually real? Other times you are so far away I think perhaps I imagined you altogether.
It has been so long for everyone else that I mostly keep you to myself now. To bring you up, to speak of you, to relive our life garners strange looks, tilts of the head, and awkward escapes from my presence. I am the only one who remembers. I have no choice. You haunt me. Just as you said you would. It is like we have our own secret life that nobody knows. This secret is the heaviest burden I have ever had to bear. It is like scrambling up a mountainside with a boulder strapped to you, dragging it slowly, painfully through the mud. While everyone else takes an escalator.
I should hate you. Resent you. Wish you had never been. That I could undo that entire part of my life and keep it from happening. Save myself. But I cannot bring myself to it. The truth is, those memories are all mine. They are precious. I take them out, turn them over, look at them from every angle, over and over. I was loved. It was real. We were real.
Two years is just a number. An arbitrarily assigned date. It means nothing, really. Each day hurts as much as the one before. Each day I miss you regardless. But these dates, these numbers, still carry weight. Even to me. They mark something. Years with, years without. They are like the beads on a rosary, I count them over and over and over, whispering prayers as they slip through my fingers.
There is little else to say that I have not said a thousand times already. I miss you. I love you. Don’t forget me. You know the words by now.
Come back to me. One day. Promise me.
Remember me.
Just as I remember you.
The mind plays tricks on you, whether you are awake or asleep. In my dreams, without my walls of logic and rationale to protect it, my mind slips backwards in time, lulls me into a world where none of this happened. I still wake up, reach across an empty bed, and feel you die all over again. Though I still do not see you outright in my dreams, I can sense you there, just out of reach. I wake up sweating, panicked, terrified that something terrible is about to happen. Then I remember: it already has. Even in the light of day, I am fooled. Little things, slips of focus. For a brief second, I am eager to tell you something. Then I remember. I drive a road we drove a thousand times and it is like dipping into our past and for that one small second I forget that you are not there with me.
I don’t just think of you from time to time. People assume that the passing of hours, months, and years means that you will slip from conscious thought. But you don’t. You are always there. I talk to you a hundred times a day. Whispered words, sad smiles, bits of my day I want to store up and save for you in a story like I used to. You never answer back. At most, I hear your little sigh, “Oh Sal.” It is not enough. It will never be enough.
Time trudges on without you. I have recovered from the initial shock of this. That time itself did not collapse when you left. It should have. Instead, the world carried on as though nothing had happened. As though the most important part of it didn’t suddenly disappear. Politicians bicker, babies are born, bills must be paid. Many times it is like watching through a frosted pane of glass. I see it all happening as though it is happening to someone else. Why does this part of my life often feel like it is the dream and before was actually real? Other times you are so far away I think perhaps I imagined you altogether.
It has been so long for everyone else that I mostly keep you to myself now. To bring you up, to speak of you, to relive our life garners strange looks, tilts of the head, and awkward escapes from my presence. I am the only one who remembers. I have no choice. You haunt me. Just as you said you would. It is like we have our own secret life that nobody knows. This secret is the heaviest burden I have ever had to bear. It is like scrambling up a mountainside with a boulder strapped to you, dragging it slowly, painfully through the mud. While everyone else takes an escalator.
I should hate you. Resent you. Wish you had never been. That I could undo that entire part of my life and keep it from happening. Save myself. But I cannot bring myself to it. The truth is, those memories are all mine. They are precious. I take them out, turn them over, look at them from every angle, over and over. I was loved. It was real. We were real.
Two years is just a number. An arbitrarily assigned date. It means nothing, really. Each day hurts as much as the one before. Each day I miss you regardless. But these dates, these numbers, still carry weight. Even to me. They mark something. Years with, years without. They are like the beads on a rosary, I count them over and over and over, whispering prayers as they slip through my fingers.
There is little else to say that I have not said a thousand times already. I miss you. I love you. Don’t forget me. You know the words by now.
Come back to me. One day. Promise me.
Remember me.
Just as I remember you.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A Little Help?
Ok, so most of you know that about six months after Craig passed away I did a major shake-up of my career. I quit my stable, secure job I'd had at a large oil and gas firm for almost five years and went back to school.
I sold my house, moved, and started all over again.
It was terrifying.
I'm about halfway through my degree and after a bit of a rocky start, I'm finally getting a handle on things. Unfortunately, the Calgary employment market isn't what it used to be and that year off work leaves a bit of a gap in my resume, even though I was in school at the time.
I'm currently trying out for an internship at a large oil and gas company here in Calgary but I need some help. It's a part of the Alberta's Next Top Accountant competition and in order to win the job I have to get the most "likes" on my tryout video online.
So if you are able, please help me out by clicking the link below and then "liking" my video (it's the little thumbs-up icon to the right of the video you need to click). I would be so grateful and know it would go a long way to beefing up my resume and helping me get my career back on track.
http://nexttopaccountant.ca/?p=70
Thank you!
I sold my house, moved, and started all over again.
It was terrifying.
I'm about halfway through my degree and after a bit of a rocky start, I'm finally getting a handle on things. Unfortunately, the Calgary employment market isn't what it used to be and that year off work leaves a bit of a gap in my resume, even though I was in school at the time.
I'm currently trying out for an internship at a large oil and gas company here in Calgary but I need some help. It's a part of the Alberta's Next Top Accountant competition and in order to win the job I have to get the most "likes" on my tryout video online.
So if you are able, please help me out by clicking the link below and then "liking" my video (it's the little thumbs-up icon to the right of the video you need to click). I would be so grateful and know it would go a long way to beefing up my resume and helping me get my career back on track.
http://nexttopaccountant.ca/?p=70
Thank you!
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Because It Makes Me Laugh
So a million years ago, give or take, Craig and I finally got all grown up and decided to get an apartment of our own.
Well, technically I got tired of living in a basement and got an apartment of my own, dragging Craig with me.
We were finally grown ups and loved every minute of it. At least for that first week. The rent was a mere $700 a month for 546 square feet of pure... bliss? Ok, so the bedroom was too small to fit a bed (which we didn't even have) and with no couches we were forced to watch our 14" tv while lying on blankets on the floor. Oh and that 14" tv? It was too old to hook our dvd player up to so we were forced to watch beta. For those of you who don't remember beta... well... good grief I'm old.
Only one person could be in the kitchen at a time and you couldn't load dishes into the dishwasher while still in the kitchen so you either had to, a) wash them by hand in the teeny tiny sink, or b) stand outside the kitchen to load the dishwasher while someone else stood inside the kitchen passing you the dishes that had been sitting on the counters, stove, or in the oven (when we ran out of room on the counters... pretty much every day).
We didn't have a dining room or a table - just a sort of breakfast bar that became a pseudo shelf for our desk since we had nowhere else to put stuff. Those first couple weeks we ate dinner off of ice cream bucket lids and tupperware.
The washer and dryer were stackable which is just a fancy way of saying you could only wash about two pairs of socks at a time. We did have a deck, though. All ten beautiful square feet of it. The dust from construction in the area was so bad if you went out there you usually left footprints akin to those after a serious snowfall. Whenever the global fireworks festival came in August we would scrunch ourselves up against the far corner of this deck and catch the left 50% of the show. It was magical.
It only took about a year for the nerves to fray and my patience to run out. I'd found us a nice little place for not much more a month, down the street from my parents, that had not one, but TWO bathrooms. This, I knew, would be the secret to matrimonial success - no more sharing sinks or having to wait for someone else to finish in the bathroom. We got three good sized bedrooms, an actual place for a table (which, ironically, took us over a year to buy anyway), and a real kitchen with cupboard doors you could open and everything. I was only too thrilled to dump that apartment and head for our new life, never looking back.
It actually shocked the heck out of me when Craig became all nostalgic about that shoebox of an apartment. We bickered there constantly and always seemed to be crawling on top of each other just to get anything done. For some reason he saw this as "being close". While I complained about having to try to cook in a cramped kitchen and was forever bashing my head on cupboard doors and low-lying light fixtures, he watched wistfully as his wife made him a home cooked meal, marvelling at my "cuteness" (read: clumsiness). While I hated dragging groceries up three flights of stairs because of an elevator that never worked, he relished the exercise and would take them full speed, two at a time, grinning with glee.
When it actually came to moving day, I couldn't have been happier. Craig, however, was sad. He wanted to remember those days in the crummy apartment for the rest of our lives. Some thing he could tell our grandkids about and remember fondly in our old age. I, of course, wanted no part in this.
So, oblivious to my disbelief, he decided to run around frantically and catalogue as much as he could of the old apartment. These photos are a few of the ones he took that day. They are my favourites, obviously:
Now I look at these and I can't help but laugh. Instead of the two of us on our rockers perusing memories of our "first crappy apartment", it's just me. I don't love these because I loved that apartment. Far from it. I don't think I could ever have the affection for it that Craig did.
Instead I love them because of what they represent. Craig's enthusiasm for cataloguing our lives as though someday we might forget. He was meticulous about keeping old cards, notes, photographs, and trinkets that held special meaning to him. Like a magpie he would squirrel away these tokens like shiny objects, taking them out from time to time to reminisce.
I always loved that about him and was delighted to uncover these treasures, one at a time, after he passed away.
In the end, he didn't just catalogue our lives for himself. He catalogued them for me.
They became a way for me to remember. To pick up these trinkets and photographs, turn them over in my hands, and smile about where they came from.
All the little pieces of our lives, neatly wrapped up and ready for me.
And though he may never know this, I am truly grateful for this gift he left me.
I do take them out and remember these moments in our life. Sometimes it's like he's looking at them with me, hovering just over my should to point and say, "See, Sal? Look at how skinny I used to be!"
Well, technically I got tired of living in a basement and got an apartment of my own, dragging Craig with me.
We were finally grown ups and loved every minute of it. At least for that first week. The rent was a mere $700 a month for 546 square feet of pure... bliss? Ok, so the bedroom was too small to fit a bed (which we didn't even have) and with no couches we were forced to watch our 14" tv while lying on blankets on the floor. Oh and that 14" tv? It was too old to hook our dvd player up to so we were forced to watch beta. For those of you who don't remember beta... well... good grief I'm old.
Only one person could be in the kitchen at a time and you couldn't load dishes into the dishwasher while still in the kitchen so you either had to, a) wash them by hand in the teeny tiny sink, or b) stand outside the kitchen to load the dishwasher while someone else stood inside the kitchen passing you the dishes that had been sitting on the counters, stove, or in the oven (when we ran out of room on the counters... pretty much every day).
We didn't have a dining room or a table - just a sort of breakfast bar that became a pseudo shelf for our desk since we had nowhere else to put stuff. Those first couple weeks we ate dinner off of ice cream bucket lids and tupperware.
The washer and dryer were stackable which is just a fancy way of saying you could only wash about two pairs of socks at a time. We did have a deck, though. All ten beautiful square feet of it. The dust from construction in the area was so bad if you went out there you usually left footprints akin to those after a serious snowfall. Whenever the global fireworks festival came in August we would scrunch ourselves up against the far corner of this deck and catch the left 50% of the show. It was magical.
It only took about a year for the nerves to fray and my patience to run out. I'd found us a nice little place for not much more a month, down the street from my parents, that had not one, but TWO bathrooms. This, I knew, would be the secret to matrimonial success - no more sharing sinks or having to wait for someone else to finish in the bathroom. We got three good sized bedrooms, an actual place for a table (which, ironically, took us over a year to buy anyway), and a real kitchen with cupboard doors you could open and everything. I was only too thrilled to dump that apartment and head for our new life, never looking back.
It actually shocked the heck out of me when Craig became all nostalgic about that shoebox of an apartment. We bickered there constantly and always seemed to be crawling on top of each other just to get anything done. For some reason he saw this as "being close". While I complained about having to try to cook in a cramped kitchen and was forever bashing my head on cupboard doors and low-lying light fixtures, he watched wistfully as his wife made him a home cooked meal, marvelling at my "cuteness" (read: clumsiness). While I hated dragging groceries up three flights of stairs because of an elevator that never worked, he relished the exercise and would take them full speed, two at a time, grinning with glee.
When it actually came to moving day, I couldn't have been happier. Craig, however, was sad. He wanted to remember those days in the crummy apartment for the rest of our lives. Some thing he could tell our grandkids about and remember fondly in our old age. I, of course, wanted no part in this.
So, oblivious to my disbelief, he decided to run around frantically and catalogue as much as he could of the old apartment. These photos are a few of the ones he took that day. They are my favourites, obviously:
Now I look at these and I can't help but laugh. Instead of the two of us on our rockers perusing memories of our "first crappy apartment", it's just me. I don't love these because I loved that apartment. Far from it. I don't think I could ever have the affection for it that Craig did.
Instead I love them because of what they represent. Craig's enthusiasm for cataloguing our lives as though someday we might forget. He was meticulous about keeping old cards, notes, photographs, and trinkets that held special meaning to him. Like a magpie he would squirrel away these tokens like shiny objects, taking them out from time to time to reminisce.
I always loved that about him and was delighted to uncover these treasures, one at a time, after he passed away.
In the end, he didn't just catalogue our lives for himself. He catalogued them for me.
They became a way for me to remember. To pick up these trinkets and photographs, turn them over in my hands, and smile about where they came from.
All the little pieces of our lives, neatly wrapped up and ready for me.
And though he may never know this, I am truly grateful for this gift he left me.
I do take them out and remember these moments in our life. Sometimes it's like he's looking at them with me, hovering just over my should to point and say, "See, Sal? Look at how skinny I used to be!"
Monday, February 13, 2012
How Valentine's Day Really Looks
When you are first widowed, the pain is so big and so real, it manifests physically. I remember having very severe chest pain (first time I actually took "die of a broken heart" as more than an overblown cliche), back aches, constant nausea (good for weight loss, bad for being social), and no ability to sleep on my own whatsoever. Everything hurts. Not just emotionally, but your whole body too.
Then time marches on and that pain begins to ebb. It fades, slowly, so very slowly you don't even notice it happening at the time.
Eventually it turns into a big empty space where the hurt used to be.
You walk around with this. A big empty bubble, ready to burst at any moment from the slightest provocation. When it bursts... well, duck and run for cover because the hurt comes back tenfold.
It's been almost two years now.
This time of year is hard for me. It has a lot of memories. Mostly I associate it with this sick feeling of dread. That something bad happened/could happen/might happen/did happen. It makes me reflective. Probably unecessarily so.
This time last year, Valentine's Day made me sick. Not because my boyfriend wasn't great (he was... and is) but because it still remains a fixed point in time that I actually remember spending with Craig. You see, most days drift by in your life without you even noticing. A million little things that slide by, some funny, some sweet, some sad. It's like the little ripples in a wave. You see the bigger wave, but the little ones, no matter how special or beautiful, sort of slide by.
But big days, days like Valentine's Day or anniversaries or Christmas, stand out because of their fixed date.
So those I can remember.
I remember exactly what we did.
I remember what we said.
I remember how it felt.
I've told the story of Craig's lack of Valentine's Day forethought before and the resulting Coach bag I love so much, so I won't bother recounting it here. Last year, the one year anniversary of that date, was thick with heartache for me.
This year, with more time having passed, I feel less.
This is not to say it doesn't make me sad or make me miss him. It doesn't mean I love him less than I ever did. It just means that I feel... less.
I try not to let myself get too carried away on what-ifs anymore. I know that once I allow myself to follow a train of thought, like "I wonder what we would be doing today if he was still here..." there will be no stopping the hamster wheel in my mind that can race for days, round and round, obsessing over the possibilities.
I've learned from experience how this can create someone new to mourn. Because as time goes on, you inevitably imagine the person with the slightest of alterations, so small you barely notice them at the time. Before you know it, that person you are remembering isn't the same as the one you lost. And I'd much rather keep those memories of Craig intact, preserved, exactly as he was.
This Valentine's Day I'll be rocking out alone, studying for exams, probably finishing off the night with a glass of wine. Or bottle. Depending on how things go.
I can't promise dinner won't be McDonald's accompanied by a box of Kleenex.
Or I might just laugh my way through some old emails.
I might take Coach out to look at, I might not.
Either way, I think I'll feel a little calmer, a little softer, a little less sad than last year.
And that's progress.
Then time marches on and that pain begins to ebb. It fades, slowly, so very slowly you don't even notice it happening at the time.
Eventually it turns into a big empty space where the hurt used to be.
You walk around with this. A big empty bubble, ready to burst at any moment from the slightest provocation. When it bursts... well, duck and run for cover because the hurt comes back tenfold.
It's been almost two years now.
This time of year is hard for me. It has a lot of memories. Mostly I associate it with this sick feeling of dread. That something bad happened/could happen/might happen/did happen. It makes me reflective. Probably unecessarily so.
This time last year, Valentine's Day made me sick. Not because my boyfriend wasn't great (he was... and is) but because it still remains a fixed point in time that I actually remember spending with Craig. You see, most days drift by in your life without you even noticing. A million little things that slide by, some funny, some sweet, some sad. It's like the little ripples in a wave. You see the bigger wave, but the little ones, no matter how special or beautiful, sort of slide by.
But big days, days like Valentine's Day or anniversaries or Christmas, stand out because of their fixed date.
So those I can remember.
I remember exactly what we did.
I remember what we said.
I remember how it felt.
I've told the story of Craig's lack of Valentine's Day forethought before and the resulting Coach bag I love so much, so I won't bother recounting it here. Last year, the one year anniversary of that date, was thick with heartache for me.
This year, with more time having passed, I feel less.
This is not to say it doesn't make me sad or make me miss him. It doesn't mean I love him less than I ever did. It just means that I feel... less.
I try not to let myself get too carried away on what-ifs anymore. I know that once I allow myself to follow a train of thought, like "I wonder what we would be doing today if he was still here..." there will be no stopping the hamster wheel in my mind that can race for days, round and round, obsessing over the possibilities.
I've learned from experience how this can create someone new to mourn. Because as time goes on, you inevitably imagine the person with the slightest of alterations, so small you barely notice them at the time. Before you know it, that person you are remembering isn't the same as the one you lost. And I'd much rather keep those memories of Craig intact, preserved, exactly as he was.
This Valentine's Day I'll be rocking out alone, studying for exams, probably finishing off the night with a glass of wine. Or bottle. Depending on how things go.
I can't promise dinner won't be McDonald's accompanied by a box of Kleenex.
Or I might just laugh my way through some old emails.
I might take Coach out to look at, I might not.
Either way, I think I'll feel a little calmer, a little softer, a little less sad than last year.
And that's progress.
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