While I haven’t been able to make new posts every day, I have found that the few posts I have been able to write have provided a new source of healing for me. Writing has been a way for me to release some of the thoughts that plague my mind, often on repeat, going around and around and around, almost waiting to be dropped off. Having a blog has been a way to “drop them off”, to get them out of my mind, to let my heart breath.

And yet, there are some thoughts that don’t have this roundabout way to them, they can’t be put into words. It’s almost like a black hole – that part of me where my fears and pains run to, where no words can even begin to describe what is going on. I often have difficulty expressing this part of me, this part that almost controls my being, my mind, my strength. I have sat many a times staring at a blank screen, trying to convey what I truly want to express – what grief truly has done to me. Like a thief in the night, it came in suddenly and took everything I was, everything I had known, and  disappeared without a trace. Leaving me empty, alone, and dark. I wish my words could even do justice to the impact Nate’s passing has had on me.

Thankfully, there are those out there who have been robbed like I, but have come back into the light. They have found their footing again and are able to look back and laugh at this thief, to take back what is theirs. It is so inspiring to me to read their words of wisdom, to know that one day there will be light again. One book I have been reading recently is Second Firsts by Christina Rasmussen. This book was given to me by another widow and finally, there are words on the page that describe exactly what I am going through now, along with words of hope for the future. Words that I could not even find myself, are there staring at me in black type, explaining every thought, every emotion, every sense of what I am experiencing. I know there is a future for me, I am thankful to God for giving me another new day, as painful as they often might be. While the present is painful, the future is so full of hope – because God gave us his son, he crucified him on a cross so that we might have life. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life grieving. This thief will one day return to me what it took – and not on its own accord – but because I demanded it back. Slowly, surely, I am gaining strength to take it back. To take control of my life again and to make it mine. To live in the present, not the past, but always remembering to live for the future – knowing that heaven is my destination and God is my strength, He is my courage and my provider.

Because I have finally found words that describe so clearly how I feel currently and since Nate passed, I wanted to share some of them with you. So that not only will it help you to understand the pain and loss that I feel, but also to allow you to see into the eyes of others you may one day encounter who have similar loss. The following words have been paraphrased from Second Firsts:

I have lived in the shadow of loss – the kind of loss that can paralyze you forever.

I have grieved like a professional mourner – in every waking moment, draining every ounce of my life force.

I died – without leaving my body.

Loss is devastating.

It’s painful and sad, and it truly stops us in our tracks.

It brings up fears about our safety and abilities.

It makes us question reality. It’s so damn unfair. It’s literally one of the hardest things we ever face – and we don’t get a choice about that.

You see, before your loss, you were one person. You knew who you were. You made sense in the context of your life. But that identity was ripped away in the moment of our loss. That moment did not only bring pain and sorrow, it also brought confusion and fear.

Your brain lost its ability to plan and reason.

There’s a lot of uncertainty at this time. Even though going back to the old life isn’t possible, part of you wants to do that anyway.

In the midst of his death, I lost my life, too. He died on April 1, 2014 at 7:40 A.M. I died with him, at 7:41 A.M. His body was lifeless. My body was numb.

Loss felt like a tsunami hitting me from the inside – my brain, my heart, my arms, my legs – and washing away my inner knowing of what life was supposed to feel like.

There are no words to describe the experience of losing someone you love more than life itself. You cannot know the feeling unless you have experienced it.

It felt like I was having an out-of-body experience or watching a movie in slow motion. I wish I knew how it was for him. I wanted to go with him. But I knew I couldn’t. Our one path split in two. It was time to say good-bye. Forever.

The memory of the realization that my life was about to change is imprinted indelibly in my mind. I knew then that the death I felt within me was something I had never been prepared for, and that it was possible I might not survive this powerful kind of grieving.

I already missed him, in the few seconds I had been without him. I remember looking around me, taking in the room. And then I took my first breath of this new life. Gasping for air, each breath was immense struggle. My body did not feel like my own. It was heavy, and tired, and acted as if it did not want to go where I was taking it.

I was emotionally tormented, mentally deranged from the grief, brokenhearted, and above all else, in love with a dead man.

It had happened.

He had died.

Forever.

The silence I experienced that early morning had a physical manifestation. The silence of grief attacks your body. It makes its mark. It is so heavy that it is almost like life slows down until everything pauses. Every time you move and every time you speak the silence is amplified.

I never knew that silence was so loud during grief.

It was screaming at me.

It was speaking to me, but I could not hear it. I felt insane.

What I experienced upon my husband’s immediate absence was disbelief. I couldn’t believe I’d never see him again. I was even questioning whether my husband was dead. I could not understand how he could never come back. I was a human being experiencing an inhuman condition. Grief.

I remember the water running in the shower. It was so loud. Even water felt painful.

The pain I was experiencing…my body truly could not endure that kind of experience for long.

Nobody could help me.

Nobody could help me.

Nobody had warned me that I wouldn’t be able to go back to what I had left behind. Not only was he gone, but nothing in my life felt the same. Everything about me changed, and everything about the world around me was altered forever.

Jennifer Trapuzzano