Liars & Actors
In Sue’s community, I learned that nobody is a better liar or actor than a widow. Indeed, the bereaved as a group are great liars by necessity, for an unspoken expectation of recovery within one year is imposed on us.
Although people stopped asking how we were after a year or so, most of us continued to suffer terribly. We found the second year worse than the first, for the blessed, numbing fog of the first year lifts and one can see clearly just how desolate the landscape is, how great our loneliness is and is likely to remain.
During the second year, when we realized that the loss was permanent and we were feeling even worse than we had before, everyone but our closest friends and family members stopped calling. Our spouse’s friends disappeared. People we thought were friends turned out not to be. Relationship fissures deepened and widened, and some relationships were lost forever. Nobody helped with anything anymore. Social isolation increased as couple friends stopped inviting us to couples-dominated social gatherings where single women were, at best, awkward fifth wheels, and, at worst, perceived threats to extant marriages.
Even when intrepid couples did invite us to events, it took a certain amount of courage to attend. Seeing our contentedly committed peers enjoying all we once enjoyed with our spouses illuminated our sorrows. Each new reminder of loss made us feel we were regressing, compounding our despair.
From one another, we widows learned that we cannot return to normal, or build a new normal, within a few years of losing spouses we loved for decades. We hoped for a new normal in the third year, but many of us were dismayed to realize that years three through five were only marginally better than the first few.
Widows who reached the five-year mark were considered veteran widows. By this time, most of our children had stopped talking about their deceased parent. They didn’t ask how we were doing, most likely because they didn’t want to be reminded that the dark side of a good partnership is that it ends, leaving sometimes unbearable loneliness for the survivor who does not want or seek remarriage or cannot find an appropriate partner. No one wants to be reminded that as many as one of every three or four Americans age 65 or older has lost their spouse.[1]
“Fine, I’m fine,” becomes a mantra. Though in remembrance we may update a social media status on an anniversary now and then, we bereaved will never share with the commonwealth what we would have shared with our spouses, or what we will admit to our fellow widows. Widows don’t lie to each other.
To other widows, we acknowledge doubts that we will ever feel loved, or safe, or happy again. We admit how great is the ache to simply be hugged and held, for no one touches us anymore. We do not talk about how much we miss making love, how just thinking of being in his arms makes tears well up. We confess our surprise if ever we feel even a little real joy. Behind our laughter, jokes, and smiles is a despair that sometimes makes us ask why we bother to stay in this world. We look forward to death, and sometimes think of suicide. We stay in the world because of faith or because we don’t want to leave our children parentless, yet our satisfaction as parents pales in comparison to the satisfaction we experienced in a blessed marriage.
Thousands of widows feel this way, widows on the other side of good marriages that lasted decades. We don’t tell anyone except another widow about how dark it is or how broken we feel.
Even among other widows, we can feel isolated, for there are many who find new companions and experience contentment and happiness again, and call our grief pathological. Unlike everyone else, we just can’t seem to bounce back. All this makes us wonderful actors.
Here is what Sue wrote about widows as actors:
Monday, March 5, 2012
A Good Actress
I enrolled in an acting class in college. After a couple of classes my instructor advised me to drop out. Mr. Oberstein said, and I quote, “You enjoy being yourself too much. A good actress is unrecognizable. The audience should never know who she really is or how she feels.” Needless to say it was a long semester.
If Mr. Oberstein could see me now he would think I was a pretty good actress after all. A big part of being a widow is pretending to be something you are not.
- We act like we are happy when we feel nothing but pain and sadness.
- We pretend that being ignored by family and friends is acceptable.
- We appear to be confident and self-assured even when afraid and vulnerable.
- We come across as “over it” because others want us to feel that way.
- We acknowledge that life goes on but silently wonder where we now belong.
- We smile when our hearts are breaking and no one has a clue.
Mr. Oberstein, I finally learned everything you wanted me to. I just learned it the hard way.
How good of an actress are you?
Sue
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