The buzz of our house reminding me my reality was not a bad dream.  This was actually happening.  Scott was gone.  And I had to write his fucking obituary before we had even finished sending out the last of the thank you cards from our wedding.

Within the first 48 hours I would realize grief brain (GB) was, in fact, a dangerous state of mind that required no less than 4 of my tribe members to be present for any and all decision-making.

Even if the decision was whether or not to serve fruit with dinner or turn on a light.  Damn grief brain.   My entire tribe was affected.

We ate.  A lot.  “I could eat” had become the response to any number of questions asked.

We also gave a lot of permission to do whatever we were doing… like buying cars, shoes,  trips all over the world, concert tickets, etc.  If it sounded fun, promised a laugh or simply provided a minute of distraction from our painful reality, we were on it.

The permissions were graciously  extended into a five-year pass of doing whatever the hell we wanted.  The conversations with my tribe carried me.  They picked me up and carried me through the weeks following his death.  I wrapped myself in their permissions, understanding shock and knowing I was incapable of making big decisions.

It would take almost a month for me to accept Scott’s suicide and start processing his death.  The irony of all of my suicide prevention posts on Facebook slapping me in the face with “shoulda, woulda, coulda” commentary looping in my mind.

How could this have happened to us?

For days I continued to reach for my phone to text him or tell him something hilarious with a quick “I love you”.

Dozens of times for dozens of days.  I had to realize again and again that he wasn’t there.    I had called the phone company. I had turned off his service. I did it because he was gone.  Gone as in not coming back.  Ever.

The numbness of my heart and the haze of my mind reminded me just how awesome the human body and spirit are.  I found myself lifted by gratitude with an airy yet intentional appreciation for the love and loss of my husband.

I was grateful.  Then and now.  He let me in.  He loved me.  I got to be loved and I understand not all are as fortunate to know love like ours.  He knew I could handle this.  My charming positivity was, after all, one of the many reasons he loved me… right?

It would be nearly three months before I slept alone in our house again.  My tribe could rule the world with their meal planning, schedules and lists and food and cleaning and calendars… and more food. Seriously, so much food.

I went from owning 1 pair of yoga pants to 12 in a matter of weeks.  And not because we became gym rats. #GBLBS

Grief is a gnarly, sarcastic bitch who must be approached with a certain self-awareness, mindfulness and sense of humor.    I surrendered.  Early and often.  I still do!

I let grief work its shit.

I was honest with myself and most of those around me.  I cried and laughed.  I got mad.  I got snarky.  I had good days and bad.  And here, nearly a year later… grief still has a pretty decent grip on me.

It wears like a shadow.

A shadow that comes alive with an obnoxious two-handed choke hold on me at the most inopportune time;  suffocating me with our wedding song in a department store dressing room or taunting me with Morrissey while stuck in a slow-moving elevator down with total strangers.

Regardless of grief’s hold on me, I let the tears pour out of my eyes like I’m filling buckets to save dolphins and not giving a shit.

For the first time, ever, I started to not give a shit what anyone thought.

It was awesome.  It was simultaneously exhausting and exhilarating.

Mind = blown.  I didn’t know up from down or east from west but I knew my fragile little heart didn’t need to take any shit from anyone about anything.  Period.

Still don’t.

When I smell him in the middle of Target but no one is there and I still stop, look around, look up and acknowledge his presence.  I don’t give a shit if anyone sees me.

It’s the necessary reminder that I am still here and can see, hear, smell, taste and feel. The seeds of joy and gratitude flourishing deep within my heart with every moment of reflection.

“I got this”the voice inside of me says over and over.  I’m not done yet.

I don’t know why this happened.  I don’t know why I met Scott.  I don’t know why we fell in love.  I don’t know why he was taken from me.  I don’t have any of the answers.

However, I know his love and his life created a spark in my heart that will burn forever.  I know my strength has provided strength to others.  I know my story has touched someone, somewhere.

I am in absolute disbelief that it has been a year since I last heard his voice or laugh.  A year since I last held his hand, put my arms around him, kissed his cheeks and lips.  My mind now swiftly silenced by the pain in my gut.

This is the way it is.  This is me.

I’m not broken but I’m different.  I am forever changed.

As I move into year number two, I brace for new pain.  Different pain.  I brace for the regression of any progress made in healing my heart.

I pray for continued strength and sunshine.  My year of firsts are officially behind me and I am forging ahead.  The soundtrack is going to rule!

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.” – Carl Jung