Today, as I write this post, a memorial service is being held for my ex-husband in Longmont, Colorado, just about an hour away from where I live. But it may as well be held in Europe as that is how far away it feels.
Longmont is the place where I first met him, when we were both in the 8th grade. It was the place where my friend, Karen and I, lusted after him, thinking he was the best thing since sliced bread. It was where I determined that he would one day be mine.
We both grew up in Longmont so it is fitting that his memorial service is held there as many of the people that knew him still live there and can go and pay their last respects. But not me.
Am I angry about this? You bet I am. I'm also sad, sorrowful, bitter; the list goes on and on. I am sure these emotions don't come just because I cannot attend John's service; there are other things on my plate as well. 2016 has been a bad year, with a few good things sprinkled in. John's death was simply the icing on the cake, but instead of being sweet left me with a profound taste of bitterness.
I'm angry that so many people know only one side of the story, when we all know there are always three sides. I'm angry because I was told I was not welcome, but who gets to decide these things? I'm angry because, once again, other people get to dictate what I can and cannot do. Quite frankly, I am over it. And that is putting it mildly.
It's funny to me (not in a ha-ha kind of a way, but in a twisted, strange, warped way) how nearly everyone in this screwed up mess has an opinion, mostly about how I am supposed to feel and act. Some tell me I have no right to grieve as a widow because I am not; others give me a time limit on my grief. There are those that say they don't understand why I am taking this so hard while others say I am thinking too much about it.
Sadly, I have not heard one person say that if I want to go to his service, I should.
But then I get the other side, which is all too rare. Those few who want my opinion and who actually know me well enough to know how much this hurts. I have a friend who I have known for over 20 years, a friend who has been through the fire with me, time and time again. I met her for coffee, weeks ago, to pour out my heart. I was angry about a lot of things surrounding John's death and was venting. After she let me drone on and on, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "I know you. I know you are hurting." Those words were ointment to my wounds. Just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes.
Then there was the phone call I received yesterday, from a man I have never met. He is a Denver Police Officer who is attending John's service at this very minute. He may even be talking to my children right now, telling them how sorry he is for their loss. When I spoke with him yesterday, he said he had a question for me. I said, of course, go ahead. He said he and a few other officers would be attending the service and wanted to know if it would be ok if they went in uniform, wanted to know if that would be offensive to the family. You see, John's last years at the police department had not ended well, he said, and he and the other officers didn't want to offend anyone.
I told him that I would not be able to attend because his "family" did not want me there and that I could not speak for them. I went on to say that being a cop was a huge part of John's identity and I thought they should wear their uniforms, epecially because his family and my children would more than likely be happy to know that the Denver Police Department was represented and that some there still cared about John. He thanked me, then said goodbye. I, of course, may never know if he and the other officers wore their uniforms or not, but I think I affirmed what they wanted to do and I was happy that someone cared enough to ask me my opinion.
When I found out several weeks ago that this service was going to be held, I was quite surprised as no one had said a word to me about it. A friend of mine from high school sent me a message on Facebook, asking if I needed help with the service. It was innocent enough; she just assumed I would know about it, just like I am sure that the cop who called yesterday assumed I would be at the service. A fair assumption, I might add. I was married to John for over 20 years, had three children with him and had known him most of my life. At one time I was very much in love with John. It angers me that, just because I divorced him, I was now just supposed to divorce myself from the pain, that somehow I was not "allowed" to feel anything because I ended an abusive relationship.
My friend felt horrible for telling me about something she assumed I knew. That alone is absolutely ludricrous. But even more crazy was my daughter's response when I asked her about it. She simply said she didn't want to tell me about something I could not attend. COULD not?
I could go on and on about the unheard of crap that has gone down since John passed away. Every day it seems there is something new and shocking that just makes me shake my head, realizing this chaos and emotional rollercoaster I am on is exactly what he would have wanted. Not peace or acceptance or forgiveness, but upheaval and doubt and bitterness.
So here I sit, with frustration, questions and regret. I have to somehow get to the point where I ask myself the hard questions and perhaps the hardest question of all. Exactly who, in this jacked up situation, am I the most angry with? John? His Family? My kids? I guess if the truth be told, I am most angry at myself. When did I lose my backbone and let other people dictate how I feel or what I do? If I wanted to, I COULD have gone to that service. No one COULD have stopped me. And regardless of what anyone else thinks, I was entitled to go to that service. So I am mad at myself, it's true.
It would have been nice, though, so very nice, if someone, anyone, would have volunteered to go with me, to hold my hand, to stand alongside of me so I would not have felt so alone and so afraid. Just having one person say they would be with me would have maybe made all the difference in the world.
In the weeks since I heard about the service I have prayed, mostly that those who condemn me would put down their rocks, realizing that they, too, have sinned. I prayed that they, supposed Christians, would seek to forgive and not judge, that somehow they would realize that I was grieving, too. I prayed they would grant me mercy, the mercy that can only come from a heart that is focused on God. But none of that happened. Just one more thing that makes John's death even more senseless.
I have a new marriage now and a new life which I am grateful for. Along with a new marriage comes a new family, with its fair share of issues and baggage. Of course I now have a new mother-in-law who is wise and not so shy about expressing her feelings. When John died, she posted something on my Facebook wall that I will never forget. She said that grieving an ex is a lonely experience. At the time I had no idea just how right she was.
But now I know.
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