82. Private Battles Behind Closed Doors

"Sometimes the strongest people in the morning are the ones who cry themselves to sleep at night." 

~Unknown

My "private" battles over this past year haven't exactly been too private.  The demons I face and the internal battles I wage are no secret to those who know me best.  This blog is the epitome of that reality.  It's a risk, I know, but I continue to hope that putting the things that weigh heaviest on my heart into words will help me attain a sense of inner peace.  Most importantly, I hope my words will assure others understand they are not alone in experiencing the crazy slew of emotions that go along with grief.  For those unfamiliar with the process, consider yourself lucky - it's the most unpredictable, ridiculous thing you can imagine.  One day is fine, things seem to be going well - great, even - and then bam:  the proverbial freight train of grief appears out of nowhere and you feel like you just took ten steps back after a single very painstakingly slow step forward.  I think I've gotten incredibly good at putting on a show of strength and independence on the outside, but the truth, of course, is that I'm pretty fragile.

I feel fortunate to have experienced a tremendous sense of growth as a result of my decision to open up and put pen to paper.  Ask anyone who knew where I was at about a year or so ago and they'll likely tell you that the changes in me are stark.  My sense of self is so much more balanced and complete.  I am fragile...but I've also been through hell and I know I can survive it.  There are very few things that can shake me at this point.  There are disappointments and set-backs to be sure.  But after all the other crap I've been through, I know I can make it through just about anything and still find a way to come out on top.

Almost exactly ten years ago to this day, I went out on my first date with the most amazing and selfless man I've ever met.  Three years later, I became his wife...and then one year after that I became his widow.  Someone asked me this past weekend if I ever feel Jon is right there with me when things get tough and I need him the most.  I said yes, of course - always.  In ten years, he hasn't let me down yet.  And I suspect he never will.  For that, I am grateful - how many people can say that they have their very own guardian angel looking out for them every step of the way?  At the end of the day, I remind myself that no matter how many private battles I may wage, I have much to keep fighting for.  He's there with me - I can feel it - and with his love, I can do anything.

81. Letting Go of Perfection

"March on.  Do not tarry.  To go forward is to move toward perfection.  March on, and fear not the thorns, or the sharp stones on life's path." 

~Khalil Gibran

Well, it's technically my spring break from law school.  Yay...right? Yet, it hasn't been very break-ish.  I spent last night sobbing on my kitchen floor and asking God to please help me understand why I'm here and my husband is not.  He was a better person than me, a better Soldier, a better everything.  How can it be that I'm the one still here and he's the one who's gone?

I've asked that question a million times and I still haven't reached anything close to an answer.  It's like the "why" question:  I keep asking it, but I know deep down that there's never going to to a good enough "why" to satiate my appetite for incomprehension.  It's funny, you know...the more I learn in law school about how to dissect and analyze a problem, the more I can't understand the most fundamental one I've ever confronted:  why do bad things happen to good people?  Even when I meet someone I think might have the potential to surprise me, the bottom line is often the same.  I walk away disappointed and disheartened because it's all too predictable at this point.  It's like playing a game of "I told you so" with myself and thinking that this time will somehow be the exception to the rule. Jon was the exception to the rule.  Why can't there there just be more people like him?  Life would be so much simpler.

At the end of the day, I guess the good thing in all of this is that I know I'll be okay.  It really doesn't matter what happens now - my twenties have been a decade I hope to never repeat, and my thirties still hold the promise of an untainted,  decidedly un-tragic decade.  Thank God for all the good things in my life I can look to for comfort in times that try my resolve.  I have a family who loves me, a group of friends without whom I'd be lost, and a community that expresses an outpouring of support for the veterans project I've dedicated myself to making a reality.  Thank you, God, for these blessings.  I know I'm often quick to discount all the good in my life when I face a set-back, but perhaps it would benefit me to remember the positives a little more often and leave the cynicism at the door.  I have managed to achieve so much good in the face of adversity, and although I often discount the value in all of this, I know I could stand to cut myself a little slack.  Letting go of perfection is never easy, and yet it's sometimes necessary - we need to let go for the sake of our sanity, our growth, and our future.

A wise man once said that we should never fear perfection because we'll never reach it.  For now, I'm going to define perfection as the epitome of a life well-lived.  It seems fitting - both for myself and for Jon.  And for now, I think that's the perfect outlook.

80. Rare

"Some people come into our lives 

And leave footprints on our hearts 

And we are never ever the same."

I was reminded today for the millionth time of how much I miss my husband.  God, there just aren't enough people out there like him - he loved me as selflessly as a person could ever love another human being, and, as I continue to learn the hard way, that's so rare in this world.  I always knew I was lucky to have found such an incredible man so early in life.  I just didn't realize how lucky until I experienced the all the bad this world has to offer.

A week or two ago, I rolled over in bed and expected - for a brief moment - to see Jon lying there sleeping peacefully next to me.  His mouth would have been slightly ajar, head tilted back, breath sounds quiet and even - no snoring, thank God.  I always used to cuddle up to him and get as close as humanly possible, even when he'd  protest that it was too hot to have my leg draped over his and my head nestled in his armpit.  Just thinking about it now makes me smile - in my mind, I can almost recreate how good it felt to have that kind of intimate physical contact.  It's funny how things have changed.  My sleeping posture has now become very defensive.  I sleep in a king-sized bed and yet remain curled up in a little ball on the edge "my" side of the bed.  Despite sleeping alone, I've noticed I often cross my arms or stretch them out in front of me, as if to protect myself from further heartbreak by keeping unwanted physical contact far, far away.

It's interesting how many of the things I used to love or did without a second thought now cause me to take pause.  It's usually the littlest and most ridiculous of things that trigger the most pain.  Voice mail, for example.  I always loved to receive voice mails from Jon, particularly when he was feeling playful and would reference some silly inside joke to make me laugh.  I'd save them on my phone so I could go back later and listen to his voice.  I still have recordings of the last few voice mails he left me from Iraq - in fact, I listened to them all again last night.  I now have this inexplicable aversion to these kind of messages, no matter who they might be from.  I avoided setting up my voice mail box for months and continue, even now, to delete messages without listening to what they say.   If I see someone has called and I miss it, I'll call them back.  Voice mail has become like this unnecessary reminder of the fact that I won't be getting any more messages from Jon.  There are enough other things that remind me of this - I really don't need another.

I'm also far less talkative than I used to be - I'm happy to simply sit back and listen to what others have to say.  I take far fewer pictures - that was always Jon's job.  I construct huge defenses around my heart because I'm so terrified of being hurt again - and every tine I've let them down a little thus far, I face tremendous disappointment.  Jon was rare, and I recognize how lucky I was - albeit fleetingly - to have that kind of person in my life.  I do what I do now because of him to honor that rarity.  Jon always took pause to identify and point out the beautiful things in life, and I must do that now too.  I want others to understand how precious gifts like the man I married are...and how easily they can be lost forever to forces beyond our control.  There is no price you can place on such a rarity.  They say the best things in life are free...well, I'd tend to agree with that, but with one slight modification:  The best things in life are free from question and free from doubt. They are just rare.  And beautiful.  And that's all there is to it.