Emerging from the darkness of grief…

Image by Michelle Raponi from Pixabay

September 17th.

A day I’ve loved, hated, dreaded, and once again, love.

It’s not marked or notated on any calendar. There are no alarms or reminders because my heart cannot forget.

Den and I were married September 17, 1983, and we spent the next thirty-five years navigating life and raising three children. There were lots of hits, quite a few misses, and tons of laughter.

There was no laughter on September 17, 2019, my first anniversary without him. There was a meltdown of epic proportions with tears, screaming, and swearing.

It was bad.

Except for Max, Den’s beloved dog, I was alone, but even he seemed to be side-eying me while thinking up a plan of escape.

I had no more plastic smiles to give. No more politeness to share. No more false pretenses.

I needed help and sought therapy.

That alone was a nightmare, but worth it.

When September 17th rolled around again, there were tears, but no meltdown. There were tears in 2021, 2022, and 2023, but there were also smiles and laughter.

After a few “trial periods,” I ended therapy a year ago. Despite a dark day here and there, life is pretty good and I spend a lot of time smiling and laughing. Some folks would say too much time, but womp, womp!

Still, I knew that the next September 16th–the day before our anniversary, when the anxiety kicks in and freezes me in place for 36-48 hours, would decide my pass or fail.

It didn’t happen. YAAY!

Am I cured? NOPE!

But time and I are friends again.

 

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