The Unsaid

The Unsaid keeps me awake.

It visits me, mainly at night, as I'm trying to go to sleep.  Sometimes it's all of the things that I should have said when I'd had the chance.  But most of the time it's all of the things I should have said if I'd had the nerve.

It looms before me, this subconscious shadow, as I lay in my bed thinking about not just the day, but the weeks, months, and years before.  The few times when "I love you" should have been whispered and wasn't.  But mainly the times when "what you have done is unacceptable" should have been brazenly declared.

The Unsaid was born out of my need to avoid conflict and my overall belief that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. But there have been times when I wish I had a little more vinegar in me. Because there is a difference between avoiding conflict...and allowing a swarm fed by complacency consume you.

Years ago, my therapist told me that I should eliminate the word "should" from my vocabulary - what I "should" have done or what "should" have been said.  Because in some cases that word self-implicates and implies that we've done something wrong.  And I can understand that we use it all too often in our thoughts and, therefore, are constantly condemning ourselves for things we "should have done."

But when it comes to the Unsaid...the word "should" comes back into my personal dictionary.  And sometimes it comes with a lot of regret.



It's strange to think that silence can be so peaceful and overwhelming at the same time, but it can.  Because I've come to realize that my silence has led others in my past to believe they were right to do whatever it is that they've done - and that I agree with the outcome.  When in reality, what they've done has hit me so hard it has stunned me into that hush.


And that means I've left things unsaid.

Widow Chick (aka, Catherine Tidd) is the owner of www.theWiddahood.com and the author of the upcoming memoir Confessions of a Mediocre Widow (Jan. 2014).  She is also a writer for The Denver Post's Mile High Mamas and a contributor to several books on grief and renewal.

The Memory Bomb

It's happening now like it happens every spring - I find myself cleaning out and cleaning up, getting ready for summer and usually needing some sort of a change.  This is usually the time of year I buy a new slip cover for my couch or new placemats or something equally frivolous just to make a room look a little fresher.  And it's the time of year when I look at all I've stored since last year and wonder, "Do I really need all of this junk?"

So it's no surprise that I decided to tackle my garage...again.  Seriously, this is about the fifth time I've tried to clean it out since my husband died.  And each time I do, I find myself feeling a weird mix of nostalgia and irritation at what was left behind by my loveable - yet packrattish - husband.

I've been through the tools several times, always wondering do I need that gigantic air compressor and four drills?  I've hauled out boxes and boxes of stuff and each time I feel kind of sad, but a little lighter...knowing that moving forward at a pace I'm comfortable with is okay.

But on Sunday morning, I started digging into a corner I don't think I've looked at since we moved into our house almost nine years ago.  Actually, I know I haven't because as I opened the boxes...I found things that I hadn't seen since 1996.

For you young widows out there...that was a loooong time ago.

That was the year my husband and I were married and that was the year I apparently packed a box filled with the letters I had written him during our year-long engagement while he was in Florida and I was in Colorado, some old sorority mementos, and all of the stuff that was bestowed upon me during my bachelorette party before our wedding.

I think it was the moment I pulled out the purple sequined bikini that I said to my kids, "Go inside.  Mommy needs to go through some stuff."

Almost six years - six years - since my husband's death and I am still experiencing the bomb that is boxed up memories.  We think we've been through it all - have purged, donated, trashed, and cried through mountains of stuff - only to find random things that have been left behind.

It didn't hit me as hard as it used to, but I did feel that slight sucker-punch.  That quick intake of breath and that moment where your mind tries to tell your heart, "It's okay, it's okay."  I think it was when I found all of the stuff that he had packed away from his first love - his Trans Am that he bought when he was at the Air Force Academy - that the lump in my throat began to form.

This is the impossibility of widowhood, isn't it?  The knowing that there are some things - some hurts - that will always be there.  It's such a sneak attack.  And even though those attacks don't feel as harmful as they once did...the sheer surprise of it is what gets to me.

I thought I had been through everything.  But I sometimes wonder if that's ever going to be possible.

I guess the good thing about being a more experienced widow is that by now I know it's okay.  It's okay to be sad for that minute.  It's okay to take a beat and hold those things in your hands as if you've just uncovered buried treasure.  And it's okay to put it back into the box and wait for the day that you're ready to either put it away for good, in a more permanent place, because you know that it's something that will always be important to you.

Or decide to let it go.



Widow Chick (aka, Catherine Tidd) is the author of the upcoming memoir Confessions of a Mediocre Widow (Jan. 2014).  She is also a writer for The Denver Post's Mile High Mamas and a contributor to several books on grief and renewal.

Untangling My Brain

If you read my last post, it should come as no surprise that I'm still trying to untangle my brain a little.  It's kind of like trying to unpick a necklace with a fine chain - just when you think you've got a handle on it  you see another knot, maybe smaller, but more tightly bound.

I don't mind these moments in life.  Well, I mind when they're happening but I know the outcome will bring to a place I'm supposed to be.  The end of my three year relationship in September has reminded me a little of when my husband died - I spent the first six months thinking that I had a handle on things only to figure out that I was either in denial or just coping the best I knew how.

And that's when I realized how much I was affected by it.  And that's when the painful process of rebuilding began.

Now, you all know that I know that a break-up is not the same thing as a death - not even close.  The bad part about losing a spouse is how painful it is.  But on the positive side, I know that I've been through one of the worst things a person can and that frankly...anything beyond that (with the exception of another loss) really pales in comparison.

But it still hurts.

Part of my current rebuild is figuring out my priorities which, to be honest, is a very lonely process.  Because no one else can figure that out but you.  And to truly determine your priorities, you often have to clean your emotional house, take things slow, and dig deep.

Which is just as much fun as it sounds.

I have this book that I love called A Writer's Book of Days that gives writing prompts for each day of the year.  I never type what I write, loving the process of writing in a journal and not being able to erase anything that I write because I'm never sure what's going to come out.  Sometimes I write just a sentence, sometimes I'll write pages.  Sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn't.  And sometimes the prompt is just so true for my life...that's what I write about.

March 16, 2013 

Prompt:  Write about sinking

Well, that's easy.  I've been sinking for a few weeks.

Oddly, part of my descent involves a new level of self-respect.  I've been through enough, witnessed enough, and been subject to enough to finally have boundaries.  What's hard to figure out is that sometimes creating boundaries feels like closing doors and it's hard to distinguish between the two.

I don't want to be fearful of life and I also don't want to be fearful of being alone.  I feel like I'm finally getting to that place - where my self-respect outweighs my fear of being alone.  

So, while a part of me feels like I'm sinking, there's another part of my soul that feels like it's rising.  I feel disappointed in some of the things that have happened, but also proud that I've started saying, "No.  I deserve the best and I'm worth the best and I won't settle for less."

I just have to be careful that by creating boundaries, I don't isolate myself from opportunities.