The Art of (Not) Letting Go
I don’t know how to write about love without being corny. I’m better at pain, self loathing, misery; guess it’s a good thing I’m a widow because there’s a lot of that going on right now.
I bought books that talked about being better; books about being mindful; books about being grateful, optimistic, happy, every damn thing under the sun. I haven’t read any of them. I read articles though; nothing sticks. Because to be honest with you, I don’t want it to stick. I’m not ready, and I realized this two or three Fridays ago.
I follow a couple self help accounts on Twitter, astrologers and mystics, and since there was a full moon awhile ago, I decided to partake in the ritual outlined by Danielle Ayoka. She’s super intuitive and knowledgeable about the zodiac signs and after seeing so many people talking about how much lighter and freer they felt, I jumped right in: I wrote my list of things I wanted to let go of, set my intention, and then burned it. I followed her instructions and… nothing. I wasn’t lighter or freer, I didn’t cry, I had no emotional reaction. All my shit is still here because I want it to be here. I don’t know how to let go but do I really want to?
In the loss of friends along the way of widowdom, I realize that my grudges, my anger, have replaced them. Oh, my ANGER; that’s become a crutch. I have a gigantic chip on my shoulder about my husband’s death, I am Miss Poor Bitter Me, and as much as it physically hurts sometimes (a sign that I need to let it the fuck go), I hold on because it’s been there for so long. I once asked my father in law, “Who am I without my anger?” His response: “Free.”
To remove my anger means I have to be sad, to face the fact that my husband is dead. Accept it. Forgive myself, forgive others. So much shit to do. I run away instead. How can I allow myself to feel something so enormous and painful? I spend my life avoiding and dodging pain only to end up running right into it. If I ever let go, I’ll be that scene in Charmed when Prue dies and Piper breaks down at her headstone. If.
I tell myself I’ll go to his grave and tell him everything in the hopes that I’ll be healed. But I don’t. Once again looking to someone else to heal me, put me together after I throw myself against the wall. When will I learn? My husband couldn’t heal me and he was the best person in the world, my best friend can’t heal me and he’s the best person after my husband, because no one can do that but me of course. It’s hard looking yourself in the mirror and not liking the person looking back at you, to accept that maybe it is you, maybe you’re the reason why your friends have left. It’s so easy to pass blame on everyone else instead of pointing at the real culprit: me.