Washed in Black

    In February, it will be six years since Melinda died.  It's strange to me that I still have episodes where I'm transported back to the moment I went to wake her and found her cold, lifeless body lying on our bed.  These episodes aren't as long as they used to be, but they are intense and debilitating.  They are typically triggered by an image in a movie or television show where someone has died and a loved one is grieving, looking over their loved one's body.

    I will occasionally watch music videos that I know will elicit a strong reaction from me.  I wondered for a long time if I did that because I wanted to wallow in my grief.  In a way, it feels like grief is the only thing I have left of Melinda, which I know isn't really true, but reason tends to step aside when emotions are involved.  I believe the truth is more complicated than that.  One reason I subject myself to watching these videos is that it's a form of exposure therapy, to lessen the impact of the moments that are debilitating.  I am very self conscious and would be embarrassed if someone saw me having one of those bad moments. 

    Another reason I watch them is because I love the songs and their associated videos.  I have loved them for years, long before I lost Melinda.  To willingly give them up because they bother me means that I'll continue to lose things long after she died, like aftershocks after an earthquake.  My heart is both touched and saddened when I watch a TV show where a couple shares a tender moment.  I'm happy for the fictional couple and yet a little sad because I'll never have another moment like that with Melinda.  Ever.  I can't unplug myself from life altogether, so why should I avoid one thing and not another?  Somehow, I have to find a way to move forward, and I can't just wear blinders and ignore all of the potential emotional triggers and I think I may have just had a breakthrough.

    I listened to a song recently that I hadn't heard for a long time.  I have a couple thousand songs in my MP3 collection, so unless I think of something in particular that I want to hear, I'm at the mercy of the music player's shuffle feature, and some songs end up rarely being played.  The song is Black by Pearl Jam.  I found myself listening to it several times over the last few days, and my first thought was that I found a "new" song that would allow me to wallow in self pity.  The more I listened to it, the more I wondered why I was drawn to it right now, and I now think that maybe Melinda (or my subconscious) was trying to get me to realize something important.  Here is the part of the song that keeps catching my attention:

And now my bitter hands
Cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures have
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything
All the love gone bad
Turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see
All that I am
All that I'll be, yeah

    It may sound overly dramatic but for me, losing Melinda was as traumatic as losing a limb.  Even though we had major issues that needed to be resolved, she and I loved each other truly and completely, and I didn't even understand who I was without her.  We married when I was nineteen.  Until she passed, I had never even lived alone.  My sense of identity was intrinsically tied to Melinda and our marriage.  Afterwards, I didn't think of myself as a good son, a loyal friend or whatever else you might want to say about me.  I was "the widower", as if that completely defined me, although in my defense, I could think of little else for months because her uncle and mother passed within the next year.  

    Everything in my world was colored in black, stained by those series of events, and that color will never be able to be removed completely.  My world was thrown into turmoil by Melinda's unexpected passing.  How I view relationships, both current and potential ones, has been skewed by my experience.  Any new relationship comes with a warning label.  "This will not last forever.  You WILL lose them one day." I have to ask myself whether or not I could handle losing someone dear to me again.  It has left a permanent mark and has not only affected who I am, but also who I will become.  I may change and grow as a person, but I don't believe the black will ever completely go away.  It may fade over time, but it will still be there.  Paradoxically, this realization led to my AHA moment.

    I have been measuring the progress of my grief by comparing who I am now to who I used to be.  "Oh, this video still bothers me.  I must not be better yet."  But I see now the fallacy in thinking that way.  I will never be the same person I was before losing Melinda, and that's okay.  I simply need to accept that this is who I am now and move forward with my life, whether that's through work, personal growth, or relationships (either new or renewed).  Maybe a little bit of all those.  Regardless, I am resolved to stop waiting on myself to "get better."  Hopefully, I have quite a ways to go before my journey ends and I want to make the most of it.