Everything is Great, Everything is Fine

Everything is getting better all of the time...

Hey, friends.

That title (as is the case with so many of my titles) is taken from a song of the same name by Carsie Blanton and The Burning Hell. If you haven’t heard the song, it’s a satirical exploration of so many of the ways that everything in this country and the world are most definitely not great, not fine, and how they actually seem to be worsening in a lot of ways.

I don’t think I would say that my difficulties with this grief process are worsening, so that’s good. It’s also true, however, that everything is neither great nor fine.

When I tell someone that, they tend to immediately agree with me, and say something like, “Well of course you’re not doing okay, you’re going through something pretty terrible”. Which is true, and which I appreciate. I hate when I make someone feel bad for me because I was honest and transparent about my tough times. I also hate when someone second-guesses themselves immediately after asking how I’m doing, and then says something like, “I’m so stupid for asking that, of course you’re doing awful”. I don’t aspire to make anyone else feel sad—there’s enough sadness in my life right now to spare, and it serves no purpose for you to kick yourself for not being perfect in your responses. But honestly, it’s going to happen sometimes. If you’re in a relationship with me, you’re going to feel sad in the course of one of our conversations, sometimes. I just ask that you accept that reality and not distance yourself from me because it’s hard to experience sadness, even second-hand.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I need from people. Maybe this feels ego-driven to you, but hear me out. I’m not usually in the practice of asking for what I need from other people (besides Kellie). Since she’s gone, and since I’m in this place of dramatically-reduced capacity, I honestly do need some things from other people that I can’t provide for myself. That’s really hard for me to come to terms with—not only because I like to just do things for myself but because I don’t like to impose on other. Maybe I don’t like to impose on others because I care about people, and maybe I don’t like to impose on others because I don’t feel worthy of their effort and energy. It’s probably a combination of both of those. I’ve spoken before about my relationship imposter syndrome, and this is probably related. Since I think I’m probably not that great a friend, especially now, I don’t know why other people would want to be in a relationship with me. I’m also never certain that I deserve to have people drop everything to prioritize me and my needs.

That’s never been more true than right now at this place in my life. I’m a member of a shitty club that nobody wants (or chooses) to be in. I’m a widower, and I’ll always be a widower. Putting aside the fact that I have zero interest in any partners besides Kellie, even if I remarried ten more times that would not make me cease to be a widower. I have brown eyes, I love lasagna, and I’m a widower. All immutable characteristics. I’ve had brown eyes and loved lasagna for many decades, but the widower thing is brand-new to me, so I’m still just barely starting down this path.

So what do I need from people? Right now, I guess I need to be seen. I know, you would love it if I could give you an easy and straightforward answer, like “send me a pizza and I'll be great”. The reason I keep trying to figure out what I need is because even now, I get asked by multiple people each day what they can do to help. I appreciate the question more than you know! It shows that you care! And also, I’m then placed in a situation where I have to give you an answer—and I have no clue how to respond when you ask.

You know when you tell someone “call me if I can ever help with anything” but don’t really expect them to ever call? You don’t say that because you would like them to not ask for help, you say it because you love them but don’t know what to offer. And when someone has said that to you, what have you asked for? Probably nothing. So it’s this unspoken social contract where you offer and the recipient nods and doesn’t follow up, and everyone is (in theory) happier.

But I DO need help with stuff. I just don’t usually know how to articulate that need. Two nights ago, I was so sad and so lonely and didn’t know what to do about it. I didn’t tell anyone in the moment because it was like midnight and I didn’t want to bug people. Would it have been great if someone had randomly said hi? Sure, of course. Was it my own fault for not just reaching out to people who have specifically instructed me to text them anytime? Yep. I didn’t want to bother anyone, so I just sat in those emotions and suffered a little more than I had to. If I could have articulated that need at 9pm, or even 11pm, I wouldn’t have experienced as much of the loneliness at midnight.

Part of the issue there is that I can’t always predict how I’ll feel an hour from now. Triggers abound, and they pop up out of nowhere like one of the birds in Duck Hunt, flapping across my consciousness, often followed by the thought “She’s gone, and your life will always be this hard. It will never get better than right now”. Of course it’ll get better—I know that logically. It’ll probably get better in fifteen minutes, even. But in the moment, it can be hard to shake.

Another part of the issue is that I’m just so tired. This is a recurrent theme in a lot of the widow/er communities online: the exhaustion is a really tough part of it. My therapist and I spoke about this today. I really think that it’s partly due to my brain trying to insulate me from my pain by distancing me from reality (including decreasing my level of alertness, resulting in the exhaustion). Part of it is also just an immediate result of all these emotions floating around my brain ALL. THE. TIME. I don’t think we’re built to carry so many emotions, and they wear a guy out. It’s also partly because masking takes so much energy, and even around your most-loved friends and family you’re still often doing a certain level of masking. That’s just a result of not wanting to cry ALL. DAY. LONG.

Either way, I’m so tired, and so coming with an answer for you about what needs you can fulfill in the moment is a tall order. I’m trying really hard to be honest and genuine and vulnerable, which means telling you how I’m feeling, which means trying to figure out how I’m feeling in the first place.

So back to being seen. I think what I crave most, more than anything else, is for you to hold some space for me. To see me, to show me you care about me, and to be okay with however I’m able to respond to that. Maybe that looks like hanging out, maybe it looks like bringing me food, and maybe it just looks like texting or calling me and letting me talk to you for a minute about how that minute feels to me. Because most of you have a person. You know what I mean: that person who is your person. My person is now gone, and I’m not that person to anyone else. That’s a hard pill to swallow, and when I dwell too long on that fact I can sometimes really start to panic. I think that will get less terrifying in time. If I can be seen by you for even a few minutes of my day, it feels less like I’m just alone in the world.

I have been one half of “Matt & Kellie” for thirty years. I know I keep saying that, but it’s the truth. It’s my email account, it’s my profile name across multiple websites, and it’s something that I’m reminded of countless times each day. Of course we each had our own identity, but we both always preferred being half of that puzzle and celebrating how perfectly we fit together. I don’t know how to do a whole lot of things on my own, but one of those things I don’t know how to do is to just be Matt all the time, instead of one half of Matt & Kellie.

Thank you for giving me grace as I keep trying to figure this out. Thank you for seeing me. And thank you for asking how I’m doing, even though the answer will probably make both of us sad. I’m trying my best to make Kellie proud and to be as healthy as I can as I keep moving down this road.

This afternoon marked six weeks since she died, and it does not feel any less devastating to me than it did six weeks ago. I look back at my journal and the things I wrote back then are still the same things I’m feeling today. I know I’ve been on a six-week journey, but it’s awfully difficult for me to judge a difference between where I am now and where I was back in April. It has turned from April to May, and now from May to June. And I’m still spending more of my day in tears than I would like. I’m still rolling over in bed every night trying to put an arm around someone who isn’t there. I’m still always half-expecting her to walk around the corner and say “Hey” like none of this happened. I don’t know how to “move on”, I don’t want to “move on”, and I don’t need advice on how to “move on”. (In case you were wondering.)

I’m going tomorrow night to test drive a new car. I facilitated a supervision training today that felt a lot better than the one I did last week. I keep growing and learning things and moving forward in my life. I would just rather do all of that stuff with Kellie than without her, even though that’s not an option.

Thank you for being along for the ride.

Now I’m going to go try (and probably fail) to read a book.

XOXO,

Matt