Surviving Spouse

A social worker told me surviving rape means doing everything you have to during the act of violence to ensure you’re still alive after the ordeal. This may even mean allowing the perpetrator to “rape” you if it will mean you’ll still be alive at the end of it, because screaming or fighting back may lead to you being murdered.

I was in my early 20s when this was shared with me. It was comforting.

Fast forward to Mbu’s passing. Here I was again. This time I wasn’t just losing something; I was losing someone I valued in a way as sudden as losing my virginity to rape. Now I’m searching for this “survival” so desperately.  

The term surviving spouse was just a legal term until now. This time it meant not only outliving Mbu but regaining my life, my purpose and dreams.

I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask God but I was afraid to ask. I was afraid they’d move me from God and I knew I needed Him desperately. I do remember asking Him to see me through whatever laid ahead though and I think He’s doing just that to this very day.

As much as nothing prepared me for my rape, nothing prepared me for widowhood. As much as I had a few friends supporting me through the healing process from being raped, the same was when Mbu passed. With the rape, only those closest to me knew about it, so I didn’t expect much support from society. But with Mbu’s passing I was naïve to think the opposite would happen. Anyways I am over that.

I don’t know if it’s because I was young when the rape happened, but I had this fighting spirit in me that wouldn’t allow me to wallow in the pain. But the pain of losing Mbu was beyond heart wrenching, it almost killed me. Maybe it’s the life experiences in between.

I think we should take good care of our belief, faith and hope. I am saying this because life will throw whatever it chooses at you, at whatever time; whether you’re prepared for it or not, it doesn’t really care.  At this point these three will help you a great deal in ensuring you make it.

I realised this when my psychologist referred me to a psychiatrist because she saw how I was battling to deal with the loss. This was another hit. Accepting this hurt. I felt like I was failing. I sobbed so much during that session, but I had to accept she was right. I wasn’t coping to say the least. I think this is when the “survival” I was needing desperately kicked in. I thought of my kids. I couldn’t let them lose another parent. I also couldn’t let me lose me. Me had so much life awaiting her, I had to survive even for her.

I didn’t see a psychiatrist. I asked my psychologist to allow me a month to try and do things differently, which she permitted. I then started taking medication to help with the chemical imbalance in my brain prescribed by my GP. They did wonders. For the first time in months I could sleep. The anxiety attacks became less frequent. I am very careful about saying I’ve healed completely, because I’ve learned widowhood is an unforgiving emotional roller coaster.

Brave

I hate being labelled “strong”. It has a not so great connotation. It implies I’ve got it all figured out, when in fact I’m watching it all fall apart in a well-orchestrated sequence.

I’d rather be referred to as brave. It means I am trying. It says ‘I am treading forwarding regardless of the mess I am in’, because that’s what I do each day.

Each morning I lay awake with my eyes closed; meditating. I then ask God for courage to see the day through. Some days I wake up and my heart is shook with anxiety, I try to keep still, fearing moving might cause my heart to stop. I also try to recite anything positive that might get me out of that trance state.

It’s a mental war. Who I am fighting against? I don’t know. Maybe it’s all the attacks I’ve had to face before, trying to get me from within my head. This is why I have to find something positive to say to ‘them’, I can’t let ‘them’ have a say in today.

Or is it the trauma? Maybe.

Now, I ask. Where’s the strength in that? To me it’s just bravery. It’s constantly forcing through all the pain, the fear and everything else that might be thrown at me for the day. I say for the day because each day has its own.

I am very scared to own the label strong. I don’t want to be over confident and this is because I’ve been hit too many times to assure myself strong.

I am a widow

For the first time, I am okay with being called a widow.

At first I couldn’t accept it. My heart broke each time I had to explain to people that he was no more, especially those who hadn’t seen us for a while and missed the news. Some would even call his number to confirm the news for themselves. 

Imagine receiving a call a year after a spouses passing from a friend who's been out of touch and having to tell all over again the tormenting tale. Then comes the explaining whenever they don't understand the diagnosis. That's what doctors do. But I can't blame them, he was their friend, I am usually patient with them. Oh that's funny. No, really it is. Patient.

We were practically joined at the hip. We were always together. Even a short trip to buy bread or taking the rubbish to the vuil huis (rubbish house) in our complex was almost never just a trip for one. Then one blink; I am a widow.

But! One of the great things about this title; it defines me as a lover. It tells the world that I love fiercely. That I hold it down to the wire. This should make me proud, shouldn’t it?

Yet another thing. I get to close the book. For those who’ve been divorced like myself know the roller coaster of uncertainty that comes with ending a marriage. The constant regret, fear, pain, then hope; mostly false hope. So this time there’s definite certainty. Closure. Yes it hurts but the book is definitely closed, which is bittersweet because of the memories left behind.

SUPPORT

One of the saddest things about losing a spouse is the constant floating. Your heart longs for a place to call “home,” yet there is none to be found. Wishing you could reach out to someone of the same level of sincerity as the one you shared with your spouse but there is no such person.

Not that we’re ungrateful. Yes, there are lots of people offering support; but we miss that special support. One in which we didn’t have to say much to be understood. One connected like Siamese twins. Because this is what we knew. This is what our world was made of and it was our comfort. Like the saying ‘there’s no place like home,’ this was the perfect home for our hearts. This was our familiar and then comes the hard part of learning life all over again, without the support we have trusted for years. Hesitation is met by ‘sink or swim’, without reassurance from the support.  One may be quick to say “…but it’s been long now…” there’s never long. I always say, one should try to imagine waking up with only half of their body, mind, strength etc. and still be required to fulfill life’s obligations. That is life for a widow/er.