The past seven days has been sort of a blur. Up for work, rush around, home, dogs, dinner, some tv and then bed. You know, the usual. As I sit here and type I was struggling with what to write. What feelings of loss and grief sewed themselves in the tapestry of my week? I thought long and hard about something to share.
I started to feel a bit of guilt that I couldn’t find a topic to lean into. I actual caught myself getting frustrated.
“Search Bryan. Find something.”
I rewound through conversations, tv episodes, meals, both jobs, time with my boyfriend and friends but there wasn’t anything that stood out to share until I realized that was exactly what I needed to share. Interesting that I write to help myself (and others) but felt guilt that I couldn’t come up with a profound topic or view on life. My grief has created interesting emotions and here I am again learning something about myself. I sometimes feel obligated. Obligated towards my grief and there it quietly continues to try and control me.
“Well if you are Bryan but you’re not constantly reminded about your loss than are you actual still the Bryan everyone knows? Who are you even?”
I realized this week that grief is something I carry but it has also become a part of my identity. People ask about my life and that includes being widowed.
“Are you single? Married?”
For a long time I hated being short. For a long time I was embarrassed I was losing my hair. No matter how much I’d stretch, I never got taller. I always hated seeing my height line lower on the wall. No matter how many things I tried, my genetics followed my family. After years of hyper-focusing and battling who I was, I accepted the things that seemed (at first) to be shortcomings (Pun intended because I can laugh at my height.) I couldn’t change what I was given and so I made the best of it. Overtime, I forgot about my height and my hair because it didn’t consume my every day.
I wouldn’t be me if I were taller. I wouldn’t be me if I had more hair. I wouldn’t be me if my eyes were green. I wouldn’t be me if I never had lost Clayton or met with any grief in my life. Although I would change it if I could, I’m not getting taller and Clayton isn’t coming back. The point is that this week went by without being cloaked in grief because, just like my height, it’s part of who I am not all of who I am and that is a powerful distinction. I’m not just my height. I’m not just my eye color. I’m not just a blog writer. Most importantly, this week, I’ve learned I’m not just my grief…