The Complexity of Grief & Self Discovery

I'm a bad blogger. It's been about 3 years since I've posted to this blog, and I wanted to breathe life back into it, after getting some pretty encoraging comments.

When the excitement of bringing this thing back from it's ashes, wore down, I hit a brick wall.

The heck do I blog about?

This blog used to be about my beliefs and my journey as an Eclectic Pagan. I had so much heart and soul in this blog, and it really did help me on my path; which is why I wanted to bring it back.

But just as I've been a bad blogger, I've been a bad spiritual being.

Truth is, in the years this blog has sat inactive, I have reduced myself to the robotic routine of daily life.

Go to work.
Go home.
Go to bed.
Repeat.

Oops...

I found myself stuck in a job that required so much of me both physically and mentally that I didn't have time to be spiritual. I consistently came home completely exhausted and stressed and depressed. I loved so many things about my job, that I let it consume every ounce of me. I was fine with that because I was good at it. I was exceptionally good at my job, and everyone knew it.

It turned out to be a dead end job. Being really good at your job doesn't gaurentee it will get you anywhere, and it doesn't gaurentee that you'll be rewarded for your hard work. That's what happens when you work for a company who is so sales driven that they turn a blind eye to those who actually keep the place from falling apart. Big name companies are nothing more than a machine. They spit out data, but ignore the ones who keep the machine running. They don't care how you made your sales, just as long as you make them.

It was soul sucking.

It was a sinking ship too. Lucky me, I found a lifeboat, and I bailed on that ship before I drowned.

That's when I started to play with the idea of resurrecting this blog, but it didn't really seem like a necessity until a week later, when life turned upside down.

Or right side up.

A huge life changing event happened: my son's father passed away.

Now to really help you understand why this is key to my decision to bring this thing back, I'm going to have to give you some backstory.

And it's a painful backstory...

Eight years ago I found myself in a horrible relationship with this man. In my opinion, at the time, it hadn't always been horrible.

Back then, I though I loved this guy. To be honest, I really think I did love him. I thought that he was the one I was going to be with forever, and that he loved me just as infinitely as I loved him.

But when you love someone, you don't hurt them, and you certainly don't abuse them to every aspect of the word.

That's what happened to me. I fell head over heels for him and was blind to every way he was abusing me. Until he violently violated me in the most unspeakable of ways. The most unforgivable of ways.

For the longest time, I just said I was "attacked." I couldn't bring myself to say that horrible R word. His abuse continued. Stalking started. I started getting strange phone calls with no one on the other end. An ominous car circles my neighborhood. Every possible social media platform is stalked and combed through for the slightest thing than can be used against me. I'm slandered and blackmailed. Threats are made and I fear for my life and my safety. I debated about moving across the country.

Fast forward a bit, I had my son. Concieved from the "attack." Fast forward a bit more, he has the gull to file for custody.

He is awarded supervised visitation for a maximum of 4 hours a week. He decides to only do 2 hours a week, but continues these weekly visits for the next 6 years.

Court hearings dwindle down to once a month and then to not at all. Visits continue. So does the terror and his abuses.

January 31st, eight years and 3 days after the "attack," I get a phone call. Unknown name. Unknown number.

For some reason, I answer. And then I have to will myself to not drop the phone. I have to force my voice to answer. My brain processes and then slows to a snail's pace.

He is dead. Eight years of terror are over.

I cry. I do more than that. I sob. I don't know why. Relief sure, sorrow maybe, shock obviously.

In the days after his death, I found myself constantly thinking about him as I realize how far his reach on me was.

No longer do I have to take the long way home for fear I'm being followed. No longer do I have to look for his license plate on every car. No longer do I have to fear every unrecognized phone number. No longer do I have to wonder if he's hiding in the bushes ready to grab me if I go get the mail. No longer do I have to hide my son from the public eye of social media. No longer do I have to worry about him showing up with a gun. No longer do I have to plan an escape route at my job.

Eight years I lived in this state of paranoia. Eight years I was afraid to get close to anyone because he was always right there. Eight years I struggled with PTSD. Eight years I fought him; trying to protect my son.

I had grown and developed habits and mannerisms based on his hold on me. My identity was not just "me." It was "me fighting him." My identity was entirely based on him.

And suddenly he's gone.

My identity is shattered. Who am I if I'm not fighting him?

I'm still figuring it out.

I can be whoever and whatever I want to be, without his influence, for the first time in my adult life.

My first task in this new identity: figuring out how I feel about all this.

It's weird to me. I find myself grieving him. That's a normal reaction when someone dies: to grieve. But to grieve your abuser?

At the same time, I find myself happy. Happy he's gone. Which is not a normal reaction when someone dies, and has fueled a sense of guilt.

Grief and happiness are two polar opposites, sitting on completely opposite sides of the emotion spectrum. And if that's not confusing enough, add guilt on top like a thick sludge.

I'm having trouble accepting the fact that I can feel both grief and happiness at the same time. I know I can, and it's perfectly normal to do so. But it just seems weird.

Grief is not cookie cutter, and my situation isn't either. There's really no telling how I'm going to grieve him, because this whole thing is so unique.

I'm still figuring it out.

Just as I'm still figuring out who the heck I am now.

A path of self discovery seems like a good reason to bring back this blog. Want to follow along with me?