Candlesticks

I learned how to make homemade candles at girl scout camp.  Each scout sat in front of a large coffee can of melted wax, dark blue.  A smaller can contained cold water.  With those two cans and one piece of string, we created candlesticks - a dunk of the string into the hot wax followed by a dip in the water to cool it.  Wax again, adding another layer.  Water again.  It was slow, but tangible and satisfying work. By the end, a misshapen, bottom-heavy, drip of a candle was there to show off the patience and the repeated motion building it up.  I think of that process often when I'm feeling inexplicably strong or layered with extra insulation from hurt or sorrow.  Like my navy blue scout candle, that insulation I feel is both slowly built of many, many layers and very easily melted.

I've been trying to write for almost a month.  Below my cursor are many started, but unfinished paragraphs, thoughts, beginnings that aren't quite how I feel.  But today marks a month after the anniversary of this loss and a desperate need to finish my thoughts crept in when I realized the date.

The week leading up to October 17, 2014 was a terribly long and miserable one for me - it is amazing what the broken heart and the wandering brain can do when they are conspiring together.  I was weak and waiting for that Friday, for family to come into town, for my half marathon race the day after, for the year to be over.  I was also terrified to know that I would soon be unable to say, "a year ago we were here/there/doing this/saying that/happy" - that I'd know he'd been gone for over a year.  I'd have to say he'd missed two Christmases, two of Daphne's birthdays, everything two.  I'd have to do it all over again.  My brain had turned reaching the year mark into such a goal, it slammed into me with the force of a tidal wave that it was not finished, but just starting over again.

I was at the bottom and the week was a mountain. Saving my injured leg for the half-marathon, I couldn't run, so my nervous energy came out at work.  I felt a little crazed and a little too outwardly cheerful for the crumbling happening inside.  How strange to know your energy is unusually manic, but with little power or desire to stop it.

Originally, I signed up for the half marathon in order to have something positive to strive for during that time since my natural tendency is to wallow.  I'm good at it (the wallowing) and knew that I could choose to roll about in it or I could choose positive endeavors.  So scared by what my life could become, I've been trying to choose positivity to avoid the abyss - this was no exception.  The timing was perfect.  It was the first day of my second year without him. I wanted to honor his life by accomplishing something I never before believed was possible. Something I knew he'd be immensely proud of.

I knew it would be emotional.  I knew it would be incredibly difficult for this unnatural runner - both physically and mentally.  I wasn't expecting my body to unleash a physical reaction to the stress of the past year and the emotions I carried through the run - pride, reverence for his memory, utter sorrow because no matter how hard I ran, I would still have to be without him.  I finished that race, but only with the strength of the people who left notes or messages, those who showed up to cheer me on and the women who literally surrounded me, held my hand and pushed me up hills while I was on that trail.  I left a lot of things out there that I can't explain.  I also took a lot home with me when I crossed that finish line.  I regulated breathing through tears, ran through physical pain, focused on the mantra (I AM STRONG) written on my hand in black Sharpie, and conquered my biggest physical challenge (other than childbirth) to date. I triumphed over something inside - a wall made of fear, sadness, doubt, uncertainty.   I did it for him, but it turned out to be for me, too.

After all of that, I felt like I had been dipped and dipped and dipped in wax.  In the days prior to October 17th, I was increasingly panicked.  After closing that year and running that race with so many supporters, I was insulated somehow - on my way to being a whole candle once again.  For a few weeks anyway, I slept a little better, my tears were fewer and the world seemed a little easier to tackle without Matt by my side.

This race was not everything, but it is an accidental symbol for my year.  So much work.  So many long stretches to navigate.  Such a mental struggle requiring so much resolve to keep going. So many giant hills that are defeating in so many ways.  A lot of people helping me, cheering me along.  Accomplishments I never thought I'd be able to (have to) claim.

 As I nurse my injured leg (four sad weeks of healing and counting), I miss my training - the release of anxiety, the camaraderie, the choice to do something for me and for Matt.  At the bottom of a year again, unable to run, settling into winter, headed for the holidays, sadness creeping back in, I feel my outer layers threatening to melt.  The extra bulk my candle gained in that last weekend of my most awful year is starting to go, but I'm so thankful to have had that extra boost for even a short while.