For months I have filled journals with my grief thoughts, my occasional triumphs, stupid decisions and a LOT of darkness. I’ve told stories through my seasons of grief to my counselor who has repeatedly encouraged me to write something for an actual audience. Until now, 10+months out, I couldn’t formulate anything that was coherent, would have been readable and wouldn’t have had someone calling 1-800-HOTMESS to report me.
Somehow now the fog is lifting, I have ideas rattling in my head and I’ve read 20 books on being a widow (about 15% of what I read was actually helpful). My sense of humor is in full effect and I’ve definitely overshared on Social Media (sorry FB friends). I tend to talk about things, the real stuff, that make some people uncomfortable. My level of honesty might be too much but that’s just me. This life I’m living is certainly not glamorous or noteworthy but it’s mine.
I’m not sure if anyone will ever read what I write and really, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to put things down because there might be a slim chance that somewhere, a Mom is struggling with the early stages of widowhood. She has piles of forms and hours of phone calls and relentless exhaustion (even though you can never sleep). Someone has told her something akin to my blog title and she’s sifting through family photos at 2am wondering how in the hell she got to this point in her life. I’m writing for her, for me, for all the members of our crappy club. We dodge emotional land mines on a daily basis and yet, we keep on truckin’.