Tomorrow is the day. The deathaversay...the shitaversary...the day. And for the first time I actually have the space and support to grieve it in a meaningful way. Year 1 was a complete blur, and as most widows feel on that first year, it was an anti-climactic nightmare. Year 2 I was dealing with a newborn in NICU, year 3 I was in the midst of a house flip, busy AF and barely coping with life.
Life is complicated right now. But somehow tomorrow I have manifested a good amount of time alone with my three children from Round 1. And I’m scared. This is the real deal. The widow shit I ran screaming from in the first year. It’s about to hit me full force.
Recently I had to switch phones. To do so I had to delete a bunch of pictures. I kept a few. Newborn pictures. One of me with my grandpa. Some fun memories from recent trips. And this one.
I was sitting on the couch with a woman I thought would never leave my side. She was just as concerned as I was. Our kids were playing in the basement. And one of mine came up dressed like this. And I snapped this picture and sent it to her Dad.
It was one of many things I did that day in a desperate attempt to convince him life was worth living. I sent crisis info. I called on friends to check in on him. I kept checking on him. I knew.
I know now that he never received the picture. That I was already too late. I know far too much about what was happening right around that time. Details I will not share. Not with you. No one needs that shit in their head.
I know how many people currently blame me. I know the haters that read this. I recently password protected this part of my sight because of some nasty comments left anonymously by the same cowardly haters. I know saying this will attract new haters. And I don’t give a fuck.
I know now why the first words to leave the funeral directors mouth were “this was not your fault”...at the time I didn’t understand. You mean people will blame me? Wow, was I ever naive.
I know after months of counseling that secondary losses of friends is normal. Loss of identity, normal. Massive self esteem issues stemming from abandonment, normal.
I know every emotion I felt that day. I can name them. And each year I relive them. The pain in my chest becomes unbearable. The physical agony that accompanies the emotional heartache is exhausting. But I know how to handle it. I’ve done it before. I’ve got this shit handled.
I also know the love and support from the most amazing community in the world. A community no one wants to be a part of. My widow tribe literally picked up the pieces of my life along side me and supported me putting them back together. And they still do.
Day after day.
1462 of them to be exact. I know. And they know. This was not my fault. And I know and they know that day 1462 is just as fucking hard as day 1.
I am Michelle. Above all I am a mother of four incredible little beings. I am a certified Personal Trainer and Healthy Eating Coach, an educator and a real estate investor. I am a coach who also participates fully as a fitness enthusiast, a runner, and a swimmer. I speak from the heart and have no filter left to tolerate bull shit.