Sunday, March 21, 2010

That Girl

Believe it or not I haven’t cried once this weekend. Maybe it is because as my friend put it, I have cried a lifetime worth of tears in the past 21 weeks. Maybe my tear ducts are empty – I don’t know. I am just trying to ignore what is right in front of me. The move, the holidays and the rest of my life. If I let myself sit back and think about all that I must do and what I have been through, I could just cry forever. But I have learned quite a lot over time and the one thing I know to be true is that crying doesn’t fix anything. If crying was a solution there wouldn’t be any more problems in the world – I would have solved them all.

The only time I came close to tears was when people would see me out and ask me how I am doing. I would start to answer “fine” and then would choke on the words, have to reel in my emotions and flash my phony smile. I would be so much better if people would just stop talking to me altogether.

We spent a lot of time outdoors this weekend which was quite nice. Though I dwell in a big city, I live in a small neighborhood. Everyone knows me. Everyone knows my story. It doesn’t bother me that much. I feel a little bit like I am under a microscope at times, but really I don’t care. People are nicer to me than they normally would be - probably out of pity which does irk me, but as time heals my wounds I am hoping that others will just forget.

Actually what bothers me the most is my left hand. Normally I never think that much about my missing rings. But when I leave the house, I feel like my ring finger is glowing and that sparks are flying out and that everyone is starring at my missing wedding band. I am so self conscious about not wearing it I keep my hand in my pocket as much as possible. Sometimes I find myself turning a ring that isn’t there – the ghost ring.

Deep down I just miss wearing it. I miss the symbolism that surrounds the ring. I miss the man who gave it to me. I have been thinking about turning the ring into something I can wear – other than a ring. I have no idea what I want. It is hard to think about the ring too much – I almost want it to magically appear in my jewelry box. Maybe it will come to me in a dream.

I took my daughter for her first visit to a beauty parlor to chop off her long golden locks. Her hair usually looks like a rat’s nest as she won’t let me brush it and I just need to find the easy answer in everything these days.

The woman was extremely nice and asked me a million questions as she cut away at my baby’s beautiful hair. She wanted to know why I don’t have her style my hair. Why don’t I come to her when I am going out, blah blah blah. I tried to answer her questions without revealing details. But at some point my evasiveness was getting awkward and finally said, I am not really into how I look these days as my husband died five months ago. She stopped mid-cut and looked at me. You’re that girl, she whispered. I flashed my phony smile and said yes, I am that girl. Then she came around the chair and gave me a big hug and said, do you have any idea how strong you are? I just nodded. I had no idea you were so young, she said. I laughed out loud and then she started asking me a million more questions that I didn’t want to answer. But she is a hair dresser after all so I’ll forgive her.

I hate when people tell me I am strong. Several people have told me the same thing over the weekend and I hate it every time I hear it. Hate it. I am not strong. Especially when I feel like I am seconds away from sobbing hysterically for no reason, green jeeps send me into panic attacks and I am haunted by my dead husband’s ghost. I am not strong – I just have no other choice.

No one said to me you can either lie in bed everyday crying and feeling sorry for yourself while you ponder the what if's OR you can raise your children to be good and kind, cook their meals, take them to school, help do homework, take them to Dr. appointments and play dates, entertain them, clean the house, go to work, take care of anything and everything thrown your way, visit your dead husband’s grave and just carry on. There was no choice. There was no fork in the road. There is survival and that is it. This isn’t bravery or something to be proud of – not even close.

So no, I do not know how strong I am - not this girl.

1 comment:

  1. You may not be "strong" but you are clearly a survivor. Hats off to you for holding it together as best you can, taking care of your kids, and writing this blog. The blog is an act of generosity, so I'm hoping maybe you'll let me call you 'that generous girl'.

    ReplyDelete