Monday, August 9

Dearest Michael,

I've been meaning to write you for a long time now. Before I sat down to write this, I pulled out some of our recent pictures. Just needing to see your face again. Above is one I don't think you yet saw. So cute. Your smile...your smile. Love it so much.

The other day I was in Home Depot. As I was pushing Andi in the cart down the aisle, I looked up and saw you walking towards me. Yep, that's right. Just like normal, I asked you to grab something on another aisle while I kept shopping. You were coming back towards us to put the item in the cart.
And then I came back to reality and remembered you were gone and that guy with glasses and a built chest walking towards me was, in fact, someone else.

I've just been so drained. The grief itself is wearing me down. I can't seem to stop shaking and my stupid ulcer is showing up again...unsurprisingly. I have longed for you to give me your rubs that always helped me feel better.

Andi and I have been quite busy--Family and friends are so nice in helping us stay that way. I appreciate how busy it's been, because as you probably know, my down times have turned out to be pretty horrific.
Last night, though, it became clear my body was at its limit. My anxiety levels are to the brim. I've gotten pretty good at putting my "game face" on, as I've called it, but it's wearing. By the evenings, I'm so full of tension, worries, fears, shakes, and ulcer pains, that I just can't seem to calm myself down.
Your voice is always in my head--in one way or another. So as I sat there last night in my worry and pain, your voice said, "It's time to take care of your body now."
So this morning I woke up and it seems I was guided right to the treadmill. I ran, and ran hard, for a full hour, nonstop. As I ran I screamed at the world and let out all my rage, sorrow, and limitless anxiety. I thought of our last conversation and our last sweet kisses....and I ran. I thought of your last struggles, the waterfall, your precious body in the helicopter, and I ran. I thought of embracing your damaged body at the mortuary, and I ran. I thought of our magnificent wedding day, and I ran. I thought of when the windows of heaven opened to us as we witnessed the birth of our child, and I ran. I pictured myself alone in a new house, in a different place, with Andi and Harry, alone at night, without you....and I ran.
But as I ran all I kept hearing was you yelling, screaming at me--"Keep going! Push it! Push it! Get it out! Run, run, run!"--Just like those days in Arizona as we ran countless times around the circle. I got so pissed at you so many times for not backing off a bit. You just kept pushing and yelling. But it's that passion and goal setting I so loved and admired about you. I need that part of you now. I need that drive to keep me focused, driven, and motivated, just as you always were. It's that drive that, I believe is my hope in all of this. The drive to keep going in the face of incredible hardship and heartache.

The inevitable and sad truth about death is that you become more appreciative and understanding of the deceased person than you ever did when that person was alive. That is most certainly the case here. Reading your journals and recalling conversations reminds me of the times in your life when you also felt this uncontrollable rage and even sorrow. I know you know what it's like to feel so much anger, to feel so helpless and wronged. And there were so many times when you knew exactly how to channel it: You channelled it into your endless passions, your hard work, your goal setting, your workouts (so intense!), your opinions, and even in your love for music. Now more than ever, I appreciate your awesome playlists that are now the soundtrack to my life and a way for me to feel you again.
Yes, my Love, you channelled your emotions in so many ways, but mostly in your endless display of persistence. So much persistence! In our marriage, at work, in relationships, and even in standing up for your beliefs. I could go on for hours about your persistence alone. I appreciate you more than ever for that.
Oh, Babe...Help me be persistent! Help me channel this uncontrollable rage and anxiety! Help me do this!

On your wall in your office, as you well know, you hung up this quote by Thomas Jefferson:
"Nothing can stop a man with the right mental attitude from achieving his goal."

And then in your file of favorite quotes, you kept this:

The Artists Way
"Anger is fuel. We feel it and we want to do something. Hit someone, break something, throw a fit, smash a fist into the wall, tell those bastards off. But we are "nice" people, and what we do with our anger is stuff it, deny it, bury it, block it, hide it, lie about it, medicate it, muffle it, ignore it. We do everything but listen to it. Anger is meant to be listened to. Anger is a voice, a shout, a plea, a demand. Anger is meant to be respected. Why? Because anger is a map. Anger shows us what our boundaries are. Anger shows us where to go. It lets us see where we've been and lets us know when we haven't liked it. Anger points the way, not just the finger. In the recovery of a blocked artist, anger is a sign of health. Anger is meant to be acted upon, not to be acted out. Anger points the direction. We are meant to use anger as a fuel to take the actions we need to move where our anger points us. With a little thought, we can usually translate the message that our anger is sending us."

The translation of my anger is that it's just a manifestation of my bottomless sadness.
In the meantime, let's just keep running.