Dabbling in dating again

Posted on April 19, 2018. Filed under: Family, Marriage | Tags: , , |

My husband took his own life one year, one month, and 4 days ago.

About 6 weeks ago, I signed up for a couple of dating apps, just to test the waters and see how this stuff worked.

My husband and I met through friends. At a party. Seriously, is that ever anyone’s story anymore? We had friends back then who met online, but then lied about how they met because that was so new and awkward at the time.

But now? Swipe left, swipe right, swipe up, down, and around. And all I have is a picture, plus maybe 1-2 lines.

I’m supposed to date through apps this way? This sucks!

I met someone I did connect with. He wrote way more than 1-2 lines on his profile. (So did I.) I found him very attractive. I think we are not out of each other’s leagues.

We are taking it incredibly slow. We have been in contact for 3 weeks. We talked on the phone once recently. Maybe we’ll talk again. He’s nice and flirty and accomplished and smart. He has a little boy the same age as my little girl.

If this turns into something, cool. If not, that’s OK, too. It will have been a fantastic foray into online dating for a novice.

If I never find someone else to partner with, if I never fall in love ever again, if I never remarry…

If I never remarry, I see my life stretching out in front of me… in such awesome glory. I just started my own business after working to make someone else rich for 15+ years. Maybe I’ll do this new thing for 15 years. If so, that would put me at age 57. Our generation will probably live to about 100. That means I could start a third career at 57 and do that for yet another 15 years. Probably something in art. Selling my own, or opening a gallery.

I could start a non-profit arm of my existing business. I could travel anywhere I wanted to. If my daughter settled in another country or another state, I could visit her there often. I could get a PhD in something frivolous… or something not-frivolous, but that’s not as much fun.

I could go into space.

Hey, don’t laugh! I’m serious! It’s commercially available now, though cost-prohibitive for me at a quarter of a million. But it won’t always be cost-prohibitive, either because I’ll make the money or the costs will come down in the next generation – a combination of both, even better. I want to feel weightlessness and see the earth from beyond its atmosphere.

So no sweat. This guy seems nice. But if it goes anywhere, he’s going to have to make room – a lot of room, maybe! – for me.

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What I have learned

Posted on April 26, 2017. Filed under: grief, Marriage, Suicide | Tags: , |

I learned that love actually doesn’t conquer all the way I believed. I thought my love could save my husband from his bipolar disorder. It feels foolish when I actually type it out, but whatever, it’s what I believed.

I learned that trusting my instincts and listening to my inner voice doesn’t lead to happily ever after. I wouldn’t do it differently – there’s a satisfaction and a peace that comes with making life choices that way, and that doesn’t go away. I just know now that doing so means I’m on path to learn lessons, not to achieve some culmination of happiness or an ideal. I guess life doesn’t work that way.

I’ve learned that I still held onto very childish, overly simplistic ideals of life. I’m still an optimist. I still believe we have incredible power over our destinies. I just no longer believe it plays out exactly the way we want or hope.

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Grief makes me feel ugly

Posted on April 24, 2017. Filed under: grief, Marriage, Suicide | Tags: , |

An unusual thing I’ve experienced is that my self esteem has taken a serious hit after my husband took his life. I didn’t expect this. I don’t even know what it stems from, or why I would even feel this way. 

But in her book, Second Firsts, Christina Rasmussen describes this exact concept. 

The voice of grief is rather convincing, isn’t it? It tells you you’re “too old,” “not good enough,” or “not worthy enough” for another chance at life, that starting over is impossible. This voice in your head is the first thing you hear in the morning and the last thing you hear at night. It drives with you to work. It stays with you at lunch. Its message is so consistent that, because of its repetitive power, you may be inclined to believe it. But, as persuasive as the voice of grief is, everything it says is a lie. It’s all a pack of lies. Do you want the truth? If you do, then start listening to life calling to you inside your grief. How? Every time you are yearning to be held and loved, to laugh again, listen to your yearning. Do not listen to your fear . . . Listen to life calling you: “I am here, come on over. Take a chance on me. I am your life, and you’re all that I’ve got.”

I’ve felt inadequate in the most simple and the most fantastic ways since my husband died. When you lose a spouse, someone you met in what felt like the prime of your life, someone who basically agreed to love you whatever happens, and then that person dies – kills themselves, no less, you sort of feel like the gum on the bottom of someone’s boot. Not good. 

The prime of my life feels a long time ago, and I had settled into love, comfort, reliability, consistency, and being intimately familiar with known demons. 

All the demons are suddenly unknown, and I feel woefully unequipped to wield the sword in the dark against the invisible.

Rasmussen claims to have gotten out of this inadequacy. I hope to, as well. 

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My husband’s sentimentality

Posted on April 24, 2017. Filed under: grief, Marriage | Tags: , , |

My husband was a pack rat. A very neat hoarder. Everything was always in its proper place, stacked and organized well. But he had boxes upon boxes of random cards and notes and books that he never cracked open after the first time he received or used them. 

I threw everything out. The only things I kept were the love notes he wrote to me randomly, in his own handwriting, which he tucked into my purse or backpack or book to find later. 

Besides those love notes, if something was especially nice, I kept it, but usually not. I took the lovely sentiments and kept them with me, but not the physical items themselves. 

But now, with him gone, I realize I would have only ever received 6 wedding anniversary cards from him. Do I have them all, those precious few? What about my birthday cards? I’d only have 13 or 14 from him. A teeny stack! Do I have them all? 

Maybe, maybe not. I don’t have the energy to turn the house upside down looking for them. But I go through his things, and I see his many stacks of orderly cards from friends and family going back many years, and I’m struck by his sentimentality. It’s a sentimentality I don’t have. Instead, I carry some regret. Not a great trade-off.

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