Navigating Another Birthday
At the beginning of this journey after losing my spouse, I was unable to cope with my feelings. At all. Unable to feel the correct feelings, or over-feeling, seemed to last longer than I expected. In 2020, my husband left just before my birthday. I had a few friends and family message me “happy birthday” with very unforeseen consequences for them and me. This lovingly sent message unleashed something terrifying inside me. I still don’t know exactly what it was, but the closest I can come to describing it is rage.
I hit back, and I hit back hard. As I’ve said before, I make no apologies for what I felt, what I feel, and how I express myself when it comes to my grief. This year has been a little different. As I watch these same friends and family tiptoe around my birthday today, they still don’t know where I am or how I will react. The sting is gone. Now only a deep sadness remains. Sure, I’m having a birthday. I’m one year older. I’ll celebrate with a piece of cake later and probably a drink. I’ve come much further than I could ever have imagined just two years ago. But what does that mean?
This is Where I am Now
I’m certainly not over this huge loss and trauma I’ve experienced. I’m reminded of that every time I have a panic attack, or my PTSD rears its head with a grip so tight it paralyzes me. Am I becoming normalized to this new existence? I believe so. Isn’t that what time does, though? It normalizes us by subjecting us to the pain and constant bombardment of the terrible things so we can wake up, expect it, and still move through our lives. At least that’s what it seems.
So today was another revelation that I just may be able to look forward to a time with a little less pain. Maybe a little less dysfunction. And just possibly a little hope and dare I say, a brief little bit of happiness.
Again, thanks for reading my ramblings. Love you all xxooC
A note from 2026
My birthday is July 4. Eric’s was July 31. For more than two decades, one followed the other until our birthdays seemed to melt together into this thing we simply thought of as July. Even after he died, one birthday still carried the other with it.
Four years after writing this, I found myself writing about birthdays again—this time on Eric’s. I was in a very different place by then. [Seven Birthdays Later.]
Tell Me Something Good