33. No Replacements Found

"Life is not kind to all of us...Love.  That's the easy part.  It's living without the love you need that's hard" 

~Jaycee Dugard, A Stolen Life

From day one, Jon and I's policy as a couple was always one hundred percent honesty - honesty with each other and to ourselves, coupled with the promise of fidelity without question.


Before I'd had enough and threw in the towel, the last guy I dated - DS - claimed that one of the reasons he and his wife grew apart in their marriage is because she wasn't "selfish enough" - according to him, she always put his needs and the needs of their children before her own.  Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but last time I checked, that's one of the basic cornerstones of a happy and successful marriage.  Taking time out for oneself now and then is a healthy necessity, no doubt.  But to have an entire relationship centered around the narcissistic and selfish desires of one individual is a recipe for disaster, as I guess was the case on his end of things.  I'd love to know the wording of their wedding vows - "until death do us part, I promise you honesty only when it doesn't require too much effort on my part and fidelity until I get bored of you??"


I've obviously had to learn the hard way over the past few years that honesty isn't nearly so valued or essential to everyone's day-to-day existence as it was in the context of Jon and I's relationship.  I suppose I should have realized that would be the case - people lie and people manipulate.   I just never wanted to think that there would be people who would weasel their way into my life, knowing everything I've already been through, and do the very thing my father-in-law warned me might happen one day:  take full advantage of my overly eager desire to trust and believe that people are inherently good.  Looking back, it makes me feel a little foolish.  When it comes to tackling life's challenges, I think I'm generally relatively capable, independent, and can work my way through even the most daunting of to-do lists without issue.  But let's just say my twenties haven't exactly been the wild and carefree phase that others choose to move on from once they hit the big 3-0.  And my obvious vulnerability as a young, emotional widow clearly doesn't help.  So, imagine my dismay as I've slowly but surely come to the unfortunate realization that my childish ideations of the need for honesty do not hold true for the entire population.  However, since absolute honesty was always Jon and I's policy, both before and after the day we committed ourselves to it for life on the day of our wedding, I'm going to be faithful to that promise and put it all out on the table here.


First, I'm done doing what I'm "supposed" to do, like throwing my time and energy into bad relationships, to make everyone else happy and to prove that I'm "okay." I was less okay and more alone in those crappy relationships than I am now, and it has nothing to do with the passage of time.  None of those relationships made me feel the way I felt with Jon and they didn't bring him or the life I cherished with him back.  So forget about what I'm "supposed" to do...who can possibly tell a 23-year-old widow how to handle the long, seemingly endless span of time and uncertainty that represents her new future?  While her friends are out partying and living the life of the happily single, she would do just about anything for a quiet night at home holding the hand of the husband whose absence leaves a void no amount of anything can fill.  I've noticed recently that I've begun to avoid telling people how long it's been since I lost Jon because of the dreaded word "still."  Oh, that's so nice that you still wear your wedding rings!  Oh, that's so nice that you still visit with him at Arlington!  Oh, that's so nice that you chose to keep his last name and still remain so close to his family!  Still?  Five years is nothing.  It feels like a lifetime since I the last time I saw my beloved husband, but sometimes I feel that I have to make excuses for the fact that the reality of his death debilitates and devastates me on a daily basis.  I explain where I was at the beginning, where I am now, and how I've tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to handle the situation over the last five years because I want to make them understand the depths of my grief.  Some get it or at least can empathize because they've been there, though their circumstances may differ a little.  Others just don't, and perhaps they never will.  I'm not sure why I fixate so much on trying to make this latter group of people understand.  Successfully communicating the nature of my grief to them will not take any of the hurt or longing for Jon away.


Second, people often tell me to let them know if I need anything - why yes, actually I do.  I need for someone to please give me my husband back.  Is that too much to ask?  I don't know what other request I can possibly make; although I often need to be reminded that I'm not alone, the last thing I want to do is call someone at 2AM and tell them that I can't do this and that I don't want to have to keep having to be so strong because it's too much for one person to bear.  It's times like these when the negativity wins out, and I start to doubt if I'm doing the right thing or making the right choices.  In trying to make me feel better, people often suggest that perhaps I've found my new purpose in using my writing to reach out and help others, but it's at the low points that I selfishly don't want to have the ability to write and communicate these feelings because of what it means about my reality.  Reading and writing are, ironically, my escape from reality but they also force me to face it.  I want to tell people to just stop being so positive in trying to make it sound okay when it's not.  I want them to understand that I'm here, but sometimes not really all here.  I feel stuck, utterly exhausted, and terrified as I watch everyone else continue on with their lives around me and can't quite seem to figure out my own.  Where do I belong?  Where should I go?  It makes me wonder if I'll ever again have a day without tears.  

When people say I seem to be doing great or comment on how much I've been able to accomplish over the past few years, I want to tell them that it's all on the surface.  I'm actually pretty scared most of the time and feel like I'm being pulled in about 20 million directions all at once.  I have these awful anxiety episodes multiple times each day, and I no longer have the energy or motivation to do the things I used to take great pride in, such as running.  I'm always planning my next trip or trying to figure out what lies ahead on the horizon because I panic when the calendar is barren.  Friends have told me a million times that many people are never lucky enough to have a love like Jon and I's, and that it's still better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.  I sometimes wonder if the people who say those things can comprehend what it feels like to see life through the lens of what was and can never be again.  Do they know that there's no "app" or quick fix for a broken heart?  Do they know what it's like to experience a moment of something joyful and then immediately feel a sense of deflation and emptiness because Jon isn't here to share that joy with me?


Third, as if the grief itself wasn't enough, when I was seventeen, I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder.  It's been ten years now that I've struggled off and on with the symptoms of this genetic condition.  I'm not trying to use it as an excuse; like I said, I'm just being brutally honest and hoping I'm not met with judgment or stigma in response (believe me, I've given plenty of thought over the years to the great debate on whether mental illness is truly an "illness" in the traditional sense, especially given the Army's lingering attitude of "suck it up and drive on.").  Since my initial diagnosis, I've taken medication, seen countless therapists and psychologists, and tried at times to tackle it on my own.  My ex, DS, once said that if he had known about the depression when we started dating, he probably would not have wanted to get involved with me.  And once it was all over between us, he apparently told a mutual friend that he was glad he no longer had to deal with all my "drama."  Ha.  How supportive and encouraging, right?

It's comments like this, though, that really make me wonder if I'll ever be "okay" after all that's happened.  When Jon and I were dating, the happiness I felt kept the depression at bay, though it occasionally reared its ugly head in other forms, like when I struggled for a couple of years with eating too little, exercising too much and literally making myself ill with anxiety over my weight.  Since Jon's death, however, the depression has returned in full force and, even when I'm busy and distracted enough to be productive, it's always lurking in the background.  Without the guarantee of Jon's more level-headed, rational genes to balance out my emotional tendencies, the depression is another reason I've seriously considered adoption at some point in the future.  It may sound overly dramatic, but the truth is that I do not want to pass onto a child the kind of aching melancholy and sense of hopelessness I've often experienced in association with the disorder.  I'm sure I have some redeemable qualities to add to the gene pool, but the possibility of causing someone else to go through these ups and downs with the constant threat of hitting a major low is simply too selfish of a risk to take.


So there it is - my heart and my thoughts out there in the open for all to see.  Please be gentle.  As I write these words and look back on where I've been and where I'm going, I'm honestly not sure exactly how to sum up how I feel about the future, besides a notable sense of trepidation and uncertainty.  When I was young and life was simpler, I thought I'd be happy if I just had flawless skin, or a perfect body, or hair that didn't frizz at the mere hint of humidity.  Now, I understand how superficial those desires were, but at the cost of losing the man I assumed I would always be lucky enough to have by my side.  I even wonder sometimes if I'm being punished for being so happy and for thinking I was fine without God in my life because I had Jon.  Of the two of us, Jon was always the more religious, but he never pushed it on me or told me how I should feel.  The only thing we ever really discussed at length was our desire to take our children to church as a family since Jon had grown up with that experience and valued the positive influence it had on his life.  I question now whether I should have done or thought about things differently...or if this is my test to see how well I handle the time I have left without my husband.  


While we're still being one hundred percent honest here, the inescapable truth is that, no matter how I try to conceptualize it all in terms of what lies ahead, my thoughts always seem to return to what could have been.  I look around at the life I've created in his absence and wonder if he'd be happy, if he would be proud to call our house his home.  Since Jon died, I've moved about six different times, but whenever I buy things to redecorate or upgrade, I always wonder if Jon would like them, and I imagine his face beaming with excitement as he'd give guests the grand tour.  This is the problem, though.  I fill my house and my life with pretty things in an attempt to fill the void that I previously tried and failed to fill with unfulfilling relationships.  It didn't work then, and this alternative strategy doesn't really work too well either.  Things are just things.  They are no substitute for the sense of completeness I felt whenever I looked into Jon's eyes and saw the love I thought only existed in fairy tales.  No matter how beautiful the results of my efforts, I still find myself alone in the house each night, frantically searching beyond my handiwork for a sign that Jon is still with me.


A few days ago, while signing an email thanking one of the many people who came by to visit Jon at Arlington over the Memorial Day weekend, spell check flagged my last name.  The error message read “no replacements found.”  I almost laughed out loud.  No replacements found?  How very appropriate – there are simply no replacements for a gem as rare and precious as my beloved Jon.  With him in it, my life sparkled with promise; without him, I do what I need to do to get by, but the richness and luster of the past is gone and what remains pales in comparison.  In an attempt to save myself some frustration and unnecessary heartache, I won't try so hard anymore to convey this fact to others who may not understand; suffice to say, Jon and I were equally incapable of imagining the reality of life without the other, yet here I am, no longer imagining it but living it.  Well, as much as I can.  And that, my friends, is the God's-honest-truth.