Part Two: Stress in Grief’s Clothing

The First Three Months

 In my life “After,” stress and grief are one and the same, conjoined twins that cannot be separated. I have tried—so hard!—to manage grief, treating it as though it were some sort of chronic condition---like diabetes—and that if I just did everything RIGHT . . . I could manage it, reduce the complications and minimize the damage.

It does not help to let myself become over-tired; to go too many hours without eating—even if I’m not “hungry”—because if these things happen/are not prevented, then a meltdown is inevitable. But grief is not so easily managed, and meltdowns occur anyway.

I try to give myself grace. I try to stay in the moment. I try to do the heavy lifting that grief demands, to feel all the feelings and not shut them down.

Three months--and two days---into my grief journey I wrote “I am not used to being so UNHAPPY for so long, not used to the apathy. I have to fight the feeling that—somehow---I should be doing ‘better.’”

I eat, at regular intervals. I try not to eat junk food, but I had no desire to cook during that First, Worst Year. And to be honest, I didn’t have the brain power to focus on cooking.    Salads, topped with meat were my compromise.

I sleep. But it was after midnight before I could fall asleep, usually after a session of tears and scribbling my pain in a notebook. Writing is part pain release, and part pain relief---probably the most effective therapy for me.

I walk. The benefit of being outside, the endorphins from the exercise, and the feeling of---physically at least---moving forward were all helpful. And later, yoga became a mainstay.

And I cried. A lot. I spoke of Shane and memories and I had good people who let me do both; tears and talking and sometimes, both at once. And sometimes, improbable as it might seem—we laughed.

I found music to be very cathartic and comforting.

Massage to relieve tension and to provide touch.

New routines help. I found that sleeping on Shane’s side of the bed enabled me to sleep better. It was as though my subconscious understood that things were “different” and I would no longer wake myself up, searching with my feet, seeking his feet under the covers. Climbing into bed on the “wrong” side somehow seemed to make it less empty; a seemingly small change that had a huge impact on my pain level.