From the Graveyard to a New Life

I thought I had closed a door. I hadn't.

One of my most vivid memories from around the time of Cindy's suicide was driving away from the graveyard.

Not the funeral itself. Strangely, I remember very little about it.

Other than Cindy’s family divvying up the warm, wet ham sandwiches at the end.

As the car rolled off the cemetery property, I remember thinking, “Fuck, I’m glad that’s over. Time to close that door and build a new life.”

I knew the kids were going to have to deal with the loss of their mom.

But I had no idea how much it would impact them.

In fact, I spent quite a few years afterwards thinking they were over it. (and I gave myself a lot of credit for it)

And I spent quite a few years thinking I was over it.

It’s not like I hadn’t felt hurt and pain.

I had cried many times over the 5 years of living through her mental health nightmare.

I cried when I found out she was dead.

I cried when I told the girls she was dead.

I thought I was all cried out.

What was the point of crying anymore?

I was so fucking sick of it.

I was done with Cindy taking up so much of my headspace.

Part of me resented her for it.

And plus I had a ton of shit to do.

I had kids to raise.

I had a new family to build.

I had to keep my shit together because, if I didn’t, who would?

They’d already lost one parent.

There was no fucking way I was going to let them see another one fall apart.

I don’t remember ever really thinking about the idea of grief at the time.

If I look back, I’m sure my thoughts about grief were something like:

”Grief is weak people lying in fucking bed bawling while strong people take care of the shit that needs taking care of.”

Where did I get that idea? I’m not really sure.

I don’t remember anyone ever explicitly saying that to me.

My dad was always pretty matter of fact about things.

He had a damn hard upbringing and didn’t spend time moping about it.

I’m sure I compared my situation to his and thought, “If he can do it, so can I.”

And that’s in no way meant as any kind of criticism of him at all.

He survived a rough childhood and it shaped who he is.

He’s a fucking great dad.

I didn’t understand the process of healing….or even that I needed to.

Because I didn’t understand how deeply I had been hurt.

I was also drinking heavily. Every single day.

I was smoking.

And I was ashamed of both and tried to hide them.

And as a reasonably intelligent human being, I made ZERO connection to the fact that my drinking was related to the pain I was trying to bury.

It never even occurred to me.

So for a while, I was able to pretend to myself that I had it all together.

But as time went by, the lies I was telling myself became less convincing.

Not to me. They were very convincing to me.

My amazing wife Tanja started to see through them.

And as she did, she played a part in forcing me to confront them.

And as I did, I realized that I hadn’t closed any goddamn door at all.

In fact it was quite the opposite.

I was trying to live with my feet (and heart) in two worlds and being torn apart.

And once again, I had no idea of what was happening.

If you’ve been hurt, you need to heal. Bottom line.

I’ll leave it there for now.

I’ll see you next time.

One of the things I love about writing is that it immediately tends to surface new insights.

A few have popped up for me already which I find really exciting.

As a side note: I’ve started reading Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art.

What a great book to help you overcome resistance and get shit done!