I have read through the entries I’ve posted on this blog and realize that I don’t really talk about anger.
Anger is not only an understandable component of grief, it is also quite expected. And as one who freely admits to "feeling all the feels,” as hard as they are, I would be the first to admit that anger has been a part of my grief journey.
Anger at the circumstances of Mike's death. That he died alone. Anger at all the things that my good, good man did not deserve when he met his end.
At how my children have suffered.
Anger over being the one left behind. The abandonment. This one’s the biggest doozy. Death truly is hardest for those left behind. We are the ones left to pick up the pieces (especially when you have children who are mourning, too). We are expected to put on a brave face and move forward.
Heck, we are even given an implied expiration date for our grief. (It’s been over a year? Surely, we have gotten “over it”?)
Anger at the one who broke his marital vows. Who freaking died on me and left me. Who couldn’t even be around for me to scream at about how angry I am.
Anger at Mike shirking his parental responsibilities right when our kids are reaching teenhood. (Nice one, buddy!)
Trust me, there are So. Many. Things.
I could go on and on about the things that have angered me about Mike’s absence. The absoluteness of his departure. The silence he has left behind. The things left undone, unfinished, or postponed. Indefinitely.
But what is also true is that I have been so exhausted.
The emotional toll that Mike’s death has taken on me has been bone-deep. My pain has been excruciating, mentally, as it has been physically. In the early days, even taking deep breaths felt impossible. Like there was an immeasurable hole in my chest that I could never fill with air. My whole body hurt. My extremities were always cold, like I wasn’t getting enough blood flow.
I also seemed to have no end of tears. And that they came unbidden was alarming. Like when I would be in the car by myself and would suddenly be wracked with anguish, bawling my way down a busy street. And embarrassingly, at a stoplight. (What a sight I must have made!)
Add to that the elusiveness of sleep. And the daily responsibilities. Bills. Chores. Meals. School. Work. Relationships.
I have been so exhausted.
With exhaustion has come primal survival instincts – primarily, for energy conservation.
For me, this means that my brain rejects stress. Sometimes this means denial. As in, ignoring a problem until I feel like I have time (and energy) to deal with it.
Prioritization at its best:
Is the house burning? No? It can wait.
The faucet is broken? Is there another faucet we can use? Great. Use that.
Mostly, energy conservation is an internal monologue:
“Is my child screaming at me worth getting angry about? How do I react to this so that I don’t make this situation worse? Walk away? Okay, I am walking away. Now I am actively not listening to her. Because this is better. She can’t hurt my feelings if I am not listening to her.”
So yes, a lot of the time, I am walking away (avoiding) the potential source of my anger.
But honestly, this is not always easy. I can’t walk away from Mike’s absence even if I tried.
So I write (a lot) to get things off my chest.
And I pray.
And I have imaginary arguments with Mike who maddeningly has consistently nothing to say back to me, no matter how hard I try to provoke a response. (Funnily, he was never much for being provoked in life, either.)
And sometimes I find myself talking to God and Mike at the same time. Like I am asking for God to intervene for me.
And even more so, I lament to God. I take my anger out at Him. I use unholy words and weep. For how things have unraveled in my life. For how I have been left a single parent. Husband-less. A widow (which by the way, is a word I now hate).
I rage on until I have nothing left to say.
Because if anyone can take my anger, it his Him.
And if there is anyone who can give me peace, it is also Him.
I have long learned not to ask God “why” questions. (“Why did You take him from us?”) Asking these kinds of questions is exhaustion-inducing. An exercise in futility.
(And even if He actually answered, I am sure He would answer in confusing parable.)
I have, instead, learned to pray, “Please take my anger from me.” Or, “Help me to see a way out of this blinding rage.” In repetitious chant, laden with intense expectation.
It is not a weakness to rely on a Greater Power to take over. To save me from myself. To heal my heart and my mind. And my body, too. To give me back my self-control.
I simply cannot accept an existence where I am alone in managing the depths of my grief.
Is this foolishness or wisdom? You decide.
All I know is, when Mike died, my prayer was two-fold:
I was grateful that Mike’s suffering had ended; and
that our grief would be transformed.
I have consistently trusted in the Wisdom of the former and the Great Hope in the latter.
Looking back, I think that He has been faithful to this end, even if our grief has yet to reach its expiration date.
Because no, I am just not that angry anymore.
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