Six Months In

It’s been over six months since Ben left this life on earth. In all honesty, as I gasped for air when his body was returned to the earth back in May, I didn’t think I’d make it this far. I had no hope. I had no drive. I was completely empty, completely shattered, completely shocked, and believed that my life would never be beautiful again. People told me “it will get better, just keep fighting for us”, “we need you, we can’t lose you both”, “don’t give up, just keep breathing”. Truth be told, their encouragement often left me frustrated. How could they tell me to keep fighting or be upset with me for wanting to give up when they had never experienced a loss anything like mine? I recall saying numerous times “is your husband dead? No? Ok then, please stop talking.” If you’re reading this right now, though, and you happen to be experiencing that kind of loss — keep on fighting. It DOES get better. 

I remember how every waking moment I felt like a hollow shell, filled with cold nothingness, like I had been completely stripped of myself. I still feel that way sometimes, but it’s not as often. I remember feeling like the world was merciless — how could people keep moving and going about their lives when my husband was dead? I understand, now, that while my close friends and families had to keep moving, they did so with heavy hearts. I believed I would never experience joy again and I would never love deeply again — I would just go through the motions for my friends and family, and I would live out the remainder of my miserable life until God decided to have mercy and bring me home. Oh, praise our Father for His strong hands, for knowing the depths of our souls, and for providing for needs we are unaware we have. I remember the pain so clearly, because it’s still there. But towards the end of June, something changed; I chose hope.

I’d just moved back out of my parents’ house, where I stayed for a month or so after Ben died. I got off of work (it had been a horrible day, and my PTSD had been triggered) and came home to find that Ben’s dog had completely destroyed a very special piece of furniture that also belonged to Ben. It was just enough to push me over the edge of “I’m sort of keeping it together” to absolute meltdown. I lost it. I screamed, I yelled, I threw stuff, I punched the wall, I collapsed in the floor and I stared at the ceiling wondering how I was going to keep living. I bawled until I had no more tears, and I begged God to just bring me home to Him, “please, God, please just bring me home, I’m so tired, God, I can’t do this, I don’t want to, please just let me die, God.” I called my Mom. We talked until the Xanax and Ambien kicked in. And then she came and spent several days with me. In the following days I was afraid. I was afraid because of how badly I wanted to die. I knew it wasn’t an option, it wasn’t an answer, and that something had to change. I realized that I’d spent every day up until that point still loving Ben as my husband. Actively. The reality is, when you actively love a dead person, trying to keep up your role as their wife, you long to be dead, too. I learned then, that I needed to figure out how to love the memory of Ben, and to respect him in death. It didn’t happen overnight, but I consciously made an effort to re-configure my thoughts, and before long I was able to be thankful for our three years together. I was able to find hope in a Father who I knew would provide for me, and to find joy in each day, even if it was something small.

At first I was confused as to why God would let something like this happen to me. Why did He let me fall in love with a man that would leave me like this? Perhaps because Ben was angry at God and hated Him when we started dating. In his vows spoke of how I reminded Him that God is good. Maybe I was just a tool to bring him back into God’s arms before his death. It could be that my story was meant to help someone else. Or maybe there are reasons I’ve never considered. Regardless, let’s get one thing straight: God didn’t take Ben from me — free will did. Ben made a choice. My pain is merely one of the consequences of his choice. The beauty of our Father, though, is that He weeps with us when free will leads to pain and suffering. It breaks His heart, too. He’s incredible, though, because He takes broken things and rebuilds them. It’s been important, though, to remember that rebuilt things don’t always look the same. One of the hardest parts of this healing journey has been learning that different doesn’t mean bad. Ben and I had an abundance of dreams, plans, goals… all of which died with him. My life looks nothing like I expected it to a year ago. But it’s still beautiful. It’s still good. The world around me is still filled with breathtaking views, adventures to be had, and people to share them with. Different is ok. I can be happy with what today has held, and simultaneously grieve what I have lost. It’s allowed.

I could go on and on about the countless things I have learned in the last six months, but I’d better just stick with an overview for now and break it down a little more in future posts. The big take away here is: I’m glad I’m alive. I’m thankful for life, and I wish that back in those first days I could have believed that I would be ok someday. I hope, in the depths of my heart, that as you read my words, you will heal alongside me. Everyone is broken somehow — perhaps your pain isn’t from losing a spouse, but it’s pain all the same, and our Father longs to rebuild your broken pieces just as much as He longs to rebuild mine.

Til next time,

Julie