Strength.

The confusion between strength and survival.

“You’re so strong.” Those three words in one variation or another were said to me on repeat when I was in the throes of deep grief. From my parents to work colleagues and everyone in between.

Was it meant as a compliment? Yes, I believe so. I understand it was said out of love, respect, and a certain level of awe that I seemed to be moving forward seamlessly.

But here’s the reality: I’m not strong. Not at all. All those times when I was told I was being strong, I was barely getting through, hanging on by a thread. I got out of bed every morning for two reasons: my dog and my job. Because I had to.

I recall feeling overwhelmed by the simple act of rising in the morning to take my dog out. Half the time I felt listless, catatonic. Putting one foot in front of the other out of habit, muscle memory. Staring at the ground in front of me, waiting for Wolfgang to finish his business so I could go back and hide within the confines of my walls.

Then there was work. I primarily faked it. My colleagues would praise me for my strength when really all I wanted to do was scream and hide under my desk.

Did I want to be there? No, not really. Not because I didn’t like my job, because I did. I do. But what else was there? My husband was gone. The main bread winner of our household. I had to make a living, earn a paycheck. I didn’t have the luxury of grieving between the hours of 9 and 5, five days out of the week.

At night I would put on his clothing and sit in his spot on the couch with a bottle of wine and a dinner of cheese and crackers. Most nights I would cry until my head pounded. Needing to rewind whatever it was I was watching because tears blurred my vision. Not paying attention to anything that was happening on that big screen attached to the wall.

Here I am sitting in his spot on the couch in his clothes. Some of his ashes hang around my neck.

Sometimes I would go out to my car in the garage so my neighbors didn’t hear, and scream as loud as I could. A fly on the wall would see me fall to my knees in the kitchen. Hear me asking out loud why Don was taken from me. Begging for him to come back.

I drank too much, I ate too much, I didn’t move my body outside of the morning and evening strolls with my dog. I gained fifteen pounds that I am now struggling to lose. The person who exercised most days, who took care of her body, could not move. And did not care to.

I wasn’t strong. I was surviving. My heart was broken. The ugly slime of grief would render me unable to function at times. I was perpetually in a fog. The level of how much I missed him was indescribable. It still is.

I was moving through my day because I had no choice. Dog, job, or not. I had to continue to live. What else was there to do?

There was also the pile of paperwork to get through. Paperwork I’m still working on nearly three years later. There were things that needed to be fixed, phone calls to be made. Probate to file almost immediately because of some bullshit with daily fines. No one else was going to do any of that for me.

God, this world is not prepared for grievers. It really isn’t. Death. It’s as normal as birth yet this society doesn’t know how to deal with it. How to allow a griever to just f*cking grieve.

When I look back on that time it’s a wonder I survived. I can still feel the full weight of it if I allow myself to go back to those first months.

I always tell newer widows to let the grief happen. I suggest they allow it to knock them to the ground. Let it consume them. Move in it and through it. It’s the first step to getting to that place of healing. Of some sort of peace.

Did I do that? I believe so. I’ve come a long way because I worked through it. I let it nearly decimate me.

In less than four months, it will be three years. Three years of living without Don. Three years of this new normal.

Three years of grieving.

These days, I can finally look forward and see a life I need and want to live. But a song, a Facebook memory, a photo can trigger those feelings of grief. When I pass by a duplicate of the sports car he drove, my heart drops. That one will always gut me. It will be this way for the rest of my life. And I have learned to embrace it. Stand along side it.

But strong? No. I move through my grief because I have to. I need to. Because I loved. And because I want to live. But ultimately there is no choice.

I don’t tell you this for sympathy. I tell you this because it’s fact. And it feels safe to say I speak on behalf of all widows. We aren’t strong. We are getting by because we have to. There is a difference.

Am I strong now? No. Perhaps a better word would be resilient, transformed. I’m doing the best I can. I am merely a woman who is experiencing widowhood and the grief that comes along with it.

I was a lot of things — angry, sad, fearful, lonely, but not strong. Never strong. I have moved through some hard stuff and I’m learning to be someone else. Mainly out of necessity. But thank you for the sentiment. I love you all for the words of praise. Even if it isn’t true.