Grief Brain, Who Knew?

My youngest, who has ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder), often says that it feels like her brain is filled with bees. Loud and busy and hard to pin down.

My oldest, who has dyslexia (and is also convinced she’s on the autism spectrum), says it feels like her brain is filled with slugs. Slow moving and getting in the way of thoughts.

For me, as a widow, I feel like my brain is filled with mashed potatoes. Like, I know there are thoughts and memories in there, but they’re just mired down in gunk. It’s the morning brain fog that stays all day.

It’s getting annoying.

Remember back in January when we all felt “okay”? Yeah, well, that’s changed. I thought I was familiar enough with the grieving process to know how it all works. I’ve lost parents, friends, and relatives before. I’ve been sad and recovered. I’ve felt the stabbing pain of loss and then the soothing healing that follows. But this is different. None of those previous losses altered my reality or my identity the way that losing Chris has and I’m not quite sure what to do.

I miss the days that a cup of coffee would clear the cobwebs. I miss the ability to focus on a book. I miss being motivated enough to schedule a productive day.

Grief is more than the elephant in the room, it’s the elephant in my head. It’s taking up more and more space each day. And I’m thinking it’s time that I stop ignoring it.

It feels like the grief is getting worse, not better.

*sigh*

I had been warned that the year of “firsts” would be difficult, but it’s not the ones you might expect. It’s not the holidays or birthdays or anniversaries. Those are events that we typically celebrate with others, if we choose to celebrate them at all. The girls and I kind of glossed over Christmas and Easter, and it worked for us. Even our birthdays were non-events this year.

I’m learning that the grief is worse at times that I simply feel like Chris should still be here.

My daughter’s high school graduation.
Neighborhood parties.
Summer vacation.

I cried my way through all of these things over the last few weeks. I am constantly on the verge of tears, and it’s frustrating. I am not this person. I am generally optimistic and happy, and I don’t want to be this way.

I was recently up in New Hampshire on vacation with my brother and his family. My daughter and I had felt Chris’s absence intensely. He loved biking up there, and reading, and drinking cocktails, and talking with anyone who would listen. Their house sits on the lake with spectacular views and is one of the most peaceful places on earth.

All my brother had to do was casually ask me how I was doing as we were sitting down for sunset dinner on the deck. A glass of prosecco in my hand, I looked up and the tears just started rolling down my cheeks.

“What brought this on?” he asked, putting an arm around me.

“Chris should be here…” was all I could mutter between sobs.

But what I really wanted to say was “waking up” and “existing” and “getting on with life”. These are the things that bring on tears. There isn’t always an obvious trigger – like the time I heard my wedding song during a Pilates class and lost my shit – most days the grief is just laying under the surface, bubbling.

Up until now I’ve survived by staying busy. I painted rooms, decluttered, and redecorated. I joined a gym. I planted a ton of new perennials in my back yard. I’m choosing items for a fall kitchen rehab. I spent the spring getting the girls through school. I’m taking care of the dogs. I’m going into work a few days a week. I’m assembling recipe books for my kids. I’m planning a trip to Iceland.

And while all of those things are positive things to be doing, they are essentially ignoring the elephant(s) in the room. Chris is gone. His slow, painful death was traumatic. My life is surreal.

I needed to keep myself together for the kids’ sake those first few months, but now that they are on level footing it’s time for me to do the emotional work needed to get past this phase.

I will journal.
I will paint.
I will meditate.
I will talk to my therapist.
I will go hiking on the bike trails Chris created.
I will listen to vinyl.
I will decline invitations on tough days.
I will let myself feel all of the feelings.

I will do all of these things for as long as it takes…
I will patiently wait for the potatoes to get out of my brain…
I will heal…