I went for a 3 mile run today after work, legs pumping, feet pounding, breath moving, brain thinking. My mind works out all the knots inside of it while I run. I can go from contemplative to triumphant to introspective to concerned to hopeful to determined in a matter of minutes. I like to feel the sun hit my back, my face, my arms. I like to feel heaviness is leaving me... knowing I'm becoming lighter just by running out my thoughts.
There's something I want to say.
Something I haven't ever said here.
And I'm a little bit afraid. But I just want to get it out.
I'm a lot less anxious now that Rick is gone.
I don't want to feel guilty for saying that. I will not feel guilty for saying that.
The last year of Rick's life (spring 2013 - spring 2014) was a painful one. For him...but also for me. I have spent the last year not only coming to terms with his death, but with his suicide. And I have spent the last year not only healing from that loss, but healing from the pain I experienced while he was still alive.
Last Tuesday, in my post This House, I wrote:
"I gave up a lot while I lived in this house. I gave in a lot while I lived in this house. I cried a lot in this house."
And I meant before Rick died. And so, every day... in spite of all I have lost, as awful as it may sound to an outsider, I feel relieved.
I was a caretaker, I was a helper, I was a wife of a man with depression and chronic pain, I was a witness to addiction, I was an easer of pain, I was his life support, I was Rick's anchor to the earth.
But now...after the trauma, the shock, the pain, and the transition... I can fly.