One year. It's been one year since Matthew died and my world fell apart. My biggest problem though, is that I can't let my daughter know how much of a wreck I truly am. I've had to be strong for her, to let her see that while it is ok to grieve, we have to still get up and move on. It's hard to tell her those words over and over again, when I barely listen to them myself. No one seems to understand the weight of my grief. How nearly every night I've cried myself to sleep. It hardly happens now, but I think it's due to my body growing numb from the pain. I sometimes wish it would, though. During those first few weeks, after crying so hard my throat felt raw, I was guaranteed at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Now, I'm lucky to get three or four hours.
It's not for lack of trying. I've been to some of the best doctors in the area, but they all pretty much said the same thing. "You need to control your grief. I believe that is the root of the problem as to why you have nightmares or barely get any sleep. Have you thought about seeing a councilor? I can make a recommendation. Oh, and here's a prescription to help you sleep in the meantime until you can get things sorted out."
Pills. That always seems to be the answer to someone's problem. More pills. Now don't get me wrong, there are circumstances where it's appropriate, but I knew what my problem was. My husband was dead and without the feeling of his safety, my body was on high alert. There was no one to watch over Zoe and me. That job was now firmly sitting on my already overly burdened shoulders. I confided my feelings to Christina when she noticed about three months after Matthew's death, the dark circles that makeup was having trouble covering. She offered to stay with us for a while to see if that helped, but after a month of happy, peppy Christina, I thanked her for trying, but I would try other venues.
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I hated the idea of talking to a complete stranger about how you feel, and then proceeding to pay them obscene amounts of money when you're done. Others I'm sure have found it helpful to spill their darkest secrets and insecurities to someone that can't say anything or might help them sort out their problems. I was just having a hard time seeing this working for me. However, it was a last ditch effort, and I was willing to try anything.
Dr. Woodly was a kind looking woman in her late fifties. She asked the typical getting to know you questions, but then pushed to the heart of the matter. She had told me that she had lost her mother to cancer when she was sixteen and that it took her a long time to accept her death and heal. I tried not to slam my hand on the couch arm I was sitting in and scream that it wasn't the same thing, but felt that might warrant me more unwanted drugs and a trip to the psych unit at the hospital. Instead I tried very calmly to tell her that while there were similarities between the two situations, mine was not the same. She then proceeded to ask about Matthew and I's life, and why the two situations were different. When I finally reached the portion about my crushing grief since losing Mathew, the session was almost up.
"Tris I hate to stop you there, but I do think you have made great progress today. Now, I'm going to give you some homework until next week. I want you to start writing down positive things that you see on a day to day basis. It can be anything, as simple your daughter volunteering to help with the dishes, to someone on the news saving someone from a burning car. Write down anything and everything that you feel is positive and we'll discuss some of it next time."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the thought of having to perform such a mundane exercise, but then thought I would have plenty of time to do it since I didn't sleep anyway. "Ok. I'll give it a shot."
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Today I celebrated my birthday by laying flowers on my husband's grave with Zoe, trying desperately to keep it together while she wept into my chest. I don't know how long we stood there, but it eventually became too much. We went back home, but I knew nothing awaited me there to ease any of my pain. My mother and father called at one point in the afternoon, offering to bring cake, but I declined. It was just too soon.
The clock reads 10:43 pm as I get up one last time to check the doors and make sure that Zoe was in bed asleep. When I look into her room, I find her curled into a ball under her purple comforter, her light brown hair fanned out all over her pillow. The house is a little cool, given that it's January, but she has inherited that trait from me. Even in the summer, I was guaranteed to find her in that position if she was asleep. Looking closer, I can barely see the head of the stuffed fox Matthew had gotten her on her fifth birthday. He was so proud for finding the stuffed animal, he had gone to nearly every toy store in town looking for one that matched the description she had given us since it was the only thing she wanted that year. I sigh at the memory and close her door so I don't wake her.
I grab my computer and a pad of paper and go back to the bedroom. I turn the news on just to give me some background noise before I began working on the task that Dr. Woodly had given me yesterday. It was your typical news day, some government official had offended someone, gas prices would be on the rise soon, and so on. If something truly important had happened, it would be one of the first stories. I pull the pad of paper over to me and just start making a bulleted list. Zoe had told me yesterday that she had stopped two other girls from picking on a classmate because they didn't think she was pretty. I was very proud of her for helping someone else she didn't know well, even though she probably made herself a target given that it was a set of popular girls.
After about ten minutes, I look down at the paper. I had a fairly good sized list in my opinion. It was mostly filled with things that Zoe had done or my patients at work had accomplished. But then I had a thought. I'm not sure why I did, maybe it was that selfless part in me. I'm just observing things by writing this list, I'm not actually doing any good by writing this stuff down. Zoe helped a girl yesterday that was being bullied that she didn't even know. She felt good and I felt slightly better knowing that my teachings were actually sinking in. It made me feel proud what my daughter did for someone. So wouldn't I feel better if I helped someone else, or at least think that I had, if they knew they weren't the only one suffering? The next question was how I would accomplish this task. It's not like I could go out on the street offering free grief advice. First off, I wasn't exactly thriving myself and second, people would think I was insane. Then looking back down at the paper, an idea came to me. What if I wrote a letter? I would pick a random address far from here, and write a fairly generic grief letter. People are quick to ignore e-mails today, but letters are almost never ignored now due to their rarity.
I pull the laptop toward me and wait for the home screen to come up. Excitement going through for the first time in years. When the browser finally pulls up, I stare at the search bar trying to figure out which city I want my mystery person to be from. Chicago was the first one to come to mind, since it was far enough away from Atlanta. I figured it was cold, windy, and snowy there during the winter, so surely there was bound to be someone depressed in that city. I start typing random first names in the white pages, but none of the names and addresses are catching my eye. Nothing that was making me say, 'That's the one I need to write to.'
I yawn, but sleep is still eluding me, as well as any desire to write to any of the addresses I've looked at. The news has moved on to a story about a local high school basketball player that received four different offers to various colleges. I've taken to listening to the news for ideas to try and find a name. I mean to type the kids last name in, but I accidently typed the word four in the first name slot instead and hit enter. I sigh. My sleep deprived mind must have heard the word four and typed it in without a second thought. I chuckle to myself as the page attempts to find a hit for the search. "Good luck with that. No one would have a name like that."
I gasp as I stare at the lone address the page was displaying.
Four Eaton
320 W Dauntless Way
Apt 8A
Chicago, Il 606071
"Holy shit. No way," I breathe out, gripping the computer. Something in me knew this had to be the person that needed my letter. My gut was screaming that this was the one I needed to write to. Though questions where now creeping into my mind as I considered writing it. Who would name their kid 'Four'? Surely it was a nickname. Should I do another search just to be sure? My intention was to send it to a woman, not a man. Well, I'm assuming it's a man. I sigh. Fine, if he turned out to be crazy, at least I knew I would be able to take care of myself and Zoe. Mathew made sure of that when I revealed my fears of not being able to protect myself or our daughter when he passed. I grab my pen and paper and began to write.
My computer reads 2:30 am when I finally finish the letter. After crossing out, rewriting, and rewording again and again, I finally come up with a letter that I feel didn't sound too crazy. Even if it did, I didn't want or expect a reply. I was just sending it into the void, or to Four Eaton, whoever he was. I reread the letter one last time to make sure it was ready to be sent.
Dear Four,
This isn't a typical letter. I'm not a long lost girlfriend begging to see you again. In fact, you don't know me at all. I chose your name at random because I felt you might need this letter. To see my words might help you in whatever situation you are currently facing. I thought maybe if I wrote this letter, it would help me heal in the process. You see, my husband passed away a year ago today. Light was prevalent in my life with him in it, but when he died, I felt I had been cast into a void of nothingness. Just reading that, you probably think I'm asking for pity or think that I have given up, but I don't' won't pity and I haven't given up. I have too much to live for, but that doesn't mean that it's easy. The darkness does fill my days, but what that means is that when I find even a small amount of happiness, it lights up the darkness, even if for just a moment. I often tell myself that without the darkness, I wouldn't be able to appreciate how beautiful light actually is. How it shifts and moves, displaying different colors that would otherwise be unknown to us in a bright setting. I just want to let you know, you aren't alone in your struggles. They may be different, but I understand it doesn't make it any less painful. I hope that your life is filled with light when you receive this, but if it isn't, I hope you are able to find a small amount of happiness to fill the darkness. Good luck Four.