For a long time I was in search of a label. When I was in high school, I wanted to be “popular”. When I was a young wife and mother, I wanted to be “perfect”. When I was struggling with the mental health issues of depression, I wanted a “diagnosis”. I needed a compartment…a box that I could easily fit into that would define who I was because I had no clue.
Years later, when I was well and happily remarried, I realized I didn’t need any labels…that I was “free to be”. I learned who I was and while I was happily “Christian”, “wife”, “mother”, etc. I no longer needed, nor desired, someone else’s definition of ME. And then it was gone in a flash. With Mr. Virgo’s death came a label I didn’t ask for and I certainly didn’t want.
“Widow”. I became a widow. I sat with it in my lap for a while, holding it like an ill-fitting hand-me-down that didn’t suit me but I didn’t want to offend my benefactor by rejecting it outright. I mean, I was supposed to wear it, right? For awhile, I certainly felt the effects. In the acute phase, I was inconsolable. Then I was angry, withdrawn, crazy, desperate, lonely, lost, euphoric…up, down, in, out. It was mayhem. But it always led me back to what to do with this label.
When I was in therapy (and believe me, I was “in therapy” for a while when my second marriage had tanked) I walked into my psychiatrist’s office after having read the umpteenth self-help book on the mental illness du jour. I sat there and ran off the list of symptoms I had read about in that particular book and proposed that maybe THAT was what was wrong with me. I was still in search of the label because if I had a label, maybe I could fix it. I remember clearly…he sat back in his chair, tented his fingers, pursed his lips, and said, “You know, Ginny…at some point you’re just going to have to go out there and live your life.” I sat there in stunned silence, digesting these words. This invitation to freedom. In a very short time, I dropped out of my chosen career field of “victim/patient” and moved on to bigger and better things.
Dealing with this label of “widow” is feeling much like that tipping point in the psychiatrist’s office. I am finding it much more joyful to wear “happy”, “free”, “artist”, “traveler”, “writer”, “bohemian”. Trust me…I’m fully aware that my husband died, but that no longer defines who I am. HE died. I didn’t. I know that sounds heartless…blunt…but it’s true. I can wring every drop from this juicy life I’ve been given and still give Mr. Virgo the proper respect. And I can live life with joyous abandon. Without self-imposed guilt. My great grandfather used to say “It’ll stop hurting when the pain goes away.” I never understood that till now. Now that the pain is starting to subside. <3