Steps to wholeness

I have very few memories of the first few days after losing my husband.  I remember flashes, basically.  There is a family friend that we forgot to inform of his death coming into the hospital room with donuts, saying, "Oh, he's dead?  Oh no!  Do you want some donuts?"  There is a trip to the store, getting in line behind a short guy with curly hair in a camouflage hat and forcing myself not to go to him--it can't be Val.  Val's gone.  There is the comfort of staying in Esther's house, along with the sinking understanding that life has to go on--I have to go home.

I do know that it was too much.  There had been too much death and I had been damaged, and so had all my family.  The years that followed were full of selfish decisions, of selfless decisions, of heartbreaking decisions--all made by a woman who had been damaged and had not healed.  I remember not being able to think.  I began to rely too much on friends around me because I couldn't trust myself.  I couldn't think things through.

I began to reach out for help almost immediately.  But the help that I received didn't stay in my mind.  The best that I could do was internalize small phrases--make them into a mantra.  The one that I remember most is a quote from Julian of Norwich:  All will be well, all will be well, and all will be very well.  It rang in my head, at times reassuring and at times mocking, but I know beyond doubt that I believed the words that rang.

As I continued in the steps to trying to get well enough to function (I wouldn't call it a search for wholeness yet, although I did then), I needed a voice.  Not my voice; I needed a voice to tell me that they cared.  I needed to be able to speak my fears and my concerns to another person and have that person say to me something like, "I know.  I understand."  I should have been praying, but I couldn't pray.  I simply couldn't focus that well.  So instead I spoke to people I trusted, and even though they didn't understand what I needed, I loved them for listening.

Need is selfish.  I knew I was beginning to step away from being wholly needy when I began to listen to others--not my own children, sadly, but those who were dead long ago.  It was listening to the Akathist of Thanksgiving that gave me the hope to finally begin to write again.

As the years passed, I slowly began to see a difference.  It first the realization that I could breathe without my heart hurting with every breath.  It then came in seeing that life wasn't as serious as I saw it.  Later, I began to see light in my darkness.  But slowly, very slowly.  I'm cautiously saying now that I feel that I'm healed, and this is 21 years down the line.  But that's not to say that every step until lately has been fraught with  fear and sadness.  No, but it's only recently that I can say that I usually feel...well, good.

In the coming weeks, I am going to start putting a devotional--for want of a better word--together for those who are starting down the road I traveled.  It will not be day-by-day.  Instead, I plan to make it in sections.  The first section will be very short phrases--mantras, really--things you can easily read and that will ring in your head.  The second section will be very short thoughts regarding the journey.  Other sections will become increasingly longer and more thoughtful, meant to be read as you are further on the road to recovery.  I am not sure where this section will lead, but I know enough about the process to know that I will be ready when the time comes.

I'm hoping that my book brings healing.  I'm hoping that all my writings help with healing.  If you have any ideas about something you think would be good for a book for those recovering from PTSD-type trauma, please let me know in the comments or by commenting (either in the section or on FB or Google).