So, this is going to sound weird. But, sometimes I feel jealous of widows who have seemingly perfect love stories with their late partners. Especially, widows who were married, had a beautiful house together, and so many big life moments together. I have no engagement photos or stories, no wedding videos, no “bought our first house” memories, and no children. I also have a lot of memories that are hard. I have memories of big fights, break-ups, tears, and feeling overwhelmed by our disagreements. I remember sending dozens of texts with no response, hearing his voicemail over and over, and feeling exasperated that he wouldn’t get help or make changes. When I hear about marital bliss and how easy love was for some people, I wish I’d had that with Boris. I wish I didn’t have those memories of intense arguing, crying, and anger. I wish I only had happy memories of our love. I think that part of my grief is knowing that I will never, ever have that with him.
Taking a step back, I wonder why do I want these things so badly? Is it because I feel that my loss is less valid? I already feel “less” of a widow because we were not married. But, the added complicated nature of our relationship makes me even more insecure about having the “widow” title. In our 10 years together, we broke up a handful of times for maybe a week or two and once for several months. We were so young when our relationship began and we had a lot of growing pains. We disagreed a lot and our personalities clashed at times. I wanted to control everything and I wanted a plan. He lived everyday moment to moment and hated plans. I pushed and pushed. And he dug his heels in harder. Our love was not easy. We were not a fairytale love story. His death by suicide compounds the complicated nature of our relationship. I did not get to say goodbye or prepare for that. And I am left with more questions than answers and more doubts than certainties.
Before I close this on a messy, gloomy note, I want to add that there are parts of me that feel out of place as a widow because we did not have a rosy love story, however, deep in my heart I know that what we had was real and it was powerful. I know that he loved me, even if it did not always show in the way I thought it should. I know that I loved him, or rather, love him. I recognize that every relationship has hard times and there is no such thing as perfection. I also have so many wonderful memories with Boris. We graduated high school together, we made it through college together, we traveled together, got new jobs, quit jobs, we created routines and rituals together, we love(d) our cat more than anything, we made new friends and kept old ones, and we had so much fun. We laughed until we cried. We sang terribly in the car. We ate too much food. We gossiped and had inside jokes. And for the last 10 months of his life, we made it through psychiatric hospitalizations, couples therapy, diagnoses, medications, support groups, and a lot of fear. What I hate the most is that in the months before his death, I felt like our relationship was stronger than ever. It was more honest and we were both trying so hard. It was like we were almost there. I will always, always treasure the love story that I have with Boris. I am only 31, so I know that I may have decades more of life ahead of me, but Boris’s love is monumental in my life story. It is forever life-altering. The love itself and his death.
We certainly did not have a picture-perfect love. We were messy. We hurt each other. We made so many mistakes. And, sometimes that makes me feel like my grief should be less. It makes me feel like I should not get the title of widow or get to be sad about losing him. But, sometimes it just makes me feel that my grief just has more layers. I know that our love was real. It was good. Our relationship was like nothing else I have experienced and may never again. He was my very best friend. The only person I felt I could be my complete self. The one I wanted around me even when I was immeasurably angry with him. And, I am not afraid to quote Taylor Swift in saying that loving him was red. It really was. And, it still is.