I don’t generally like people or publicly sharing my business with strangers. I’m not what you’d call a joiner. Usually, I’m pretty self contained. Connecting with someone new takes a lot of introvert brain power for me. Historically, dredging my insides for something meaningful to share isn’t usually worth the effort. However. This grief thing is different. A refugee from my old life, I’m full to the brim, spilling sloppy feelings and overflowing with crap I need to express. Instead of letting loose on the innocent young Target employee who told me he’s having a “hard” day, I’ve resorted to the company of internet strangers. Resist as I might, I can’t help but trust fall backwards into their supportive web.

Concerns of the Rapidly Changing Mind

Even with people who know me really well, I’m worried they won’t get it. Don’t get me wrong - they want to but seriously, I can be intense. Expressing myself comes out as this weird jangle of thoughts, loosely held together inside an empty toilet paper roll. I fear any supportive friend will miss the theme and fail to reorder my thoughts more sensibly. I can’t really blame them. Blank stare. Or worse, they’ll see the mess I just dumped in their lap and come to a different meaning than I intended. Egads! Or even worse, they’ll be overwhelmed and resort to a trite platitude that feels minimizing and dismissive. MAKE IT STOP! Like, I hate it when I’m told it just takes time or that I’m grieving really well. I want the A+, right? Seems weird that an overachiever would reject praise. I acknowledge it is difficult to comfort my ardent and rapidly changing mind.

I decided to look outside my circle. Give them a little break. Where could I find recruits for my latest grief recovery project? Ideally, I’d locate another (youngish) stepmom, lesbian, widow of cop who suddenly went delusional and died by suicide….in Chicago. Turns out, those are rare. On Facebook, I’m in a stepmom group but it's not exactly the appropriate forum to process your partner’s death. Cringe. Populated with survivors of depression suicide loss, even suicide support groups didn’t quite hit the mark. My wife is special. Frequent breakdowns meant I had to compromise. Being widowed checked a lot of boxes so I reluctantly started there.

Sisyphean Phoenix of the Echo Chamber

Left to my own devices, I’d stay isolated in my mind’s echo chamber. Trust me, not a pretty place. In the chamber, the scorched ruins of my past life are undisturbed. Broken support beams and irreplaceably charred fragments of my former existence form a cacophonous theme song - a sad tune on repeat. Pain builds like storm clouds returning at intervals to shower a fire that’s already extinguished. It’s a sisyphean phoenix - rolling my old life up the hill only for it to burn down all over again at the top. Brutal.

Stepping It Up Like a Baby

Joining the Hot Young Widows Club (HYWC) was the first baby step into working on my mess. As nothing on the internet is truly private, I was loath to disclose details of my inner turmoil for fear of exposure. What if I was too weird? What if someone screenshotted and exposed details of my secret story? Starting small, I began commenting on others’ posts. That didn’t last long. I knew I’d soon hijack someone’s thread if I didn’t jump into disclosure with both feet. Not baby steps, I know. I shared the full monty AND pictures of us (fully clothed). I was off to the races! Just as I’m finding my stride, the next step was worrying over posting and commenting too much. Not every post needs your profound insight, Laura. I swear, sometimes I just can’t win with this brain.

As I began to share my experience, my concerns included the following, 1) No one cares, 2) No one is listening, 3) Too weird to connect, and the worst one, 4) Uncomfortable with aspects of my identity. Big ‘ole lezzie cop widow. Police officers are kinda on the shitlist right now but I was really attached to the one I married. Laying bare my business for all to see, I braced for another round of invisibility and dismissal. Would anyone even like what I had to say?

Sharing is Hard!

Good news! Turns out, the wids on HYWC are amazing weirdos. Affectionately, my wife would say I’ve found the island of broken toys. Give a widow the opportunity to share honestly and watch out! Captivated by each story, I extract dazzling, brilliant insights to add to my collection. For every strange comment or question, someone chimes in with something weirder. I love it. I felt like the Bee Girl at the end of Blind Melon’s No Rain video. Like me, she’s elated to find her squad. Side note: yellow isn’t my color so picture me in a blue tutu instead. For the record, I acknowledge not giving enough credit for widespread acceptance of my gay gay gay marriage to a short but fiesty, lady cop. I should have trusted you sooner. Maybe I was wrong about strangers?

Bee Girl among accepting, like minded weirdos.

Bee Girl trust falls into the arms of strangers.

I will admit to a bit of trial and error. My first foray into support from strangers was a Facebook widows’ group. Technically all ages, duration and types of relationships, and ostensibly, lezzies like me, the most vocal members were much older straight ladies immersed in long term grief. Nothing wrong with that; just not my demographic. I got paranoid anytime I posted something referencing suicide or my “wife,” as it seemed I got fewer likes than other’s posts in the group. I’m embarrassed to admit I wanted the likes. As a sensitive, newly created widow, an unacknowledged post was more devastating proof no one gets me. Hindsight says I just needed them to validate the existence of my pain. Ugh. Worse was, I couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined unpopularity - couldn’t talk myself out of the paranoia. Sigh.

Is This Normal?

Luckily, I found a better fit in HYWC. We’re not all young and hot but with a Snapchat filter, anything is possible. For the record, there’s all types there too but it’s different. There’s something about paying the one-time $25 fee and obtaining the stamp of ‘verified widow’ (they don’t say that but they do verify). It screens for a key variable - those who dedicate resources to working on their shit. Hallelujah. The cost is low and they have scholarships so it’s not about money. Possibly, it’s the most desperately suffering widows who sign up but my bigger point is that everyone is seeking relief from their pain. That’s relatable to me.

So... I share my weird thoughts, tricks of my brain, and sad songs. Side note, any tune can be a grief song if you listen hard enough. When I post, I’m still taking a chance. I’m releasing a little hope balloon to the universe. It’s possible no one will respond but more likely that someone will. I ask variations on, “Is this normal?” and get a resounding yes no matter what. I don’t think they’re blowing smoke up my ass and it still helps so I don’t even care. They’ve saved my life.

Credit Union of Grief

Carved from tragedy, widowhood is a strong shove into an alternate reality. This new life still looks like yours but a significant person is absent. Throws everything off, believe me. No matter how your partner dies, it takes some...adjustment. After your life is set on fire, you’ve got two choices: pick up the pieces or die trying. Should you eventually elect for the first choice, you can’t help but rebuild with more depth, understanding and acceptance. Intimidating. Piece by piece, we tightly hold onto the carbonized remains of our past lives until it’s pressed into diamonds. Putting one foot in front of the other has shifted the value of each like and comment for me - they’re now the sparkling jewels of my renewing confidence.

Sharing yourself is an investment. I’m making deposits into the community grief savings account. It’s a credit union so there’s a more forgiving credit standard. Each post or considerate response is my emotional contribution. Painstakingly created or uncovered, I embed my own cherished gems into my writing. My essays are handmade gifts for you. I hope you like them.

Wisdom of the Grief Kaleidoscope

Grieving people compile and curate wisdom. Together, their perspectives form a sort of grief kaleidoscope. Whenever I’m stuck, the multiplicity in this lens helps me find clues to a different reality. Someone else surely has a different take. For instance, one way of looking at grief like a boulder. At first, it’s too heavy and awkward to carry. Over time, the boulder doesn’t get smaller but we get stronger. There’s nothing to let go of or get over. We learn to carry it with us. Another nugget is treating grief like it is a baby. It needs care and comfort and sometimes cries for no reason. Like all feelings, grief is a message. It’s a comment on love lost. Whoa, is it talkative! Listening is the work of active mourning. For me, the goal is to survive this transformation and remember my wife with love instead of a flood of tears. Right now, I’m becoming a phoenix strong enough to carry the boulder.

Shared Wisdom Creates Connection

As private and self sufficient as most grievers are, we cannot get through this alone. It’s only by telling our stories and hearing others that we change. And we should change. Don’t tell me your dead loved one wants you to feel this crappy for the rest of your life. Unless your person was a miserable asshole, it’s more likely they’d tell you to can the sentimental sap-fest and get on with it. Now, I’m not saying don’t be sad but please, don’t let suffering become your way of honoring the dead. Deep down, I think my wife would want me to be really sad for like, a day. Pay appropriate homage in a short, well written eulogy so she could hear how much she meant to me. Then she’d want me to be happy and only break down occasionally. You know, for reassurance.

I am most certainly a different person now. At some point, I probably need to reassess if I’ve become a joiner. In the past, this meant weakness. Someone who relied on other people - a dangerous place for the self sufficient. I’m working on an updated definition. New construction, done right, is strong. With light allowed into the chamber of my mind, I suspect all may not actually be lost. My skills, abilities, and resilience are all a product of what existed before and all the love I’ve received to now. Tidying up the site of the ruins, I discover that nothing is erased or wasted. The new house will incorporate the boulder and I’ll bedazzle my homestead with newly polished gems. It looks familiar but not the same. If you can relate, you’ll love what I’ve done with the place.

Essays