Author Archives: Sonia K.

You Weren’t Allowed to Do This

There were rules, babe.

You said it yourself.  Time and time again… Whenever someone at work was acting up, or whenever someone in their personal life was doing something idiotic, you’d shake your head and talk about “the rules” in life:  The things people are allowed to do, and the things they aren’t.

We didn’t agree on everything, and that was part of the beauty of what we were, but we always agreed on “the rules.”  We lived by the same ones both in our lives, and in our relationship.  Simply put:  we knew what we were allowed to do and what neither of us were allowed to do.  The rules were very clear.

And as the years went on, I’d like to think I got more liberal in my allowances.  I think we both know I started off pretty…rigid.  But I think towards the end there, we were really getting it right.  By the end, after loving you for so long, there were a lot of things that I would have happily allowed you to do:

You were allowed to forget to call. 

All those times you would fall asleep, phone in hand, and wake up to 17 angry missed calls from me…were totally allowed.  Though I said otherwise at the time, all that anger…all that irritation… would disappear the second I saw your name appear on my screen the next morning.

I’d listen to you frantically explain what happened: how tired you were from work, how you fell asleep watching a movie with your roommate, how sorry you were for not calling.

And I’d tell you to never do it again because it worried me…because your job is dangerous and whenever you didn’t call, the worst case scenario would explode in my head… and you’d swear it’d never happen again.  But it always did, because it was allowed.

You were allowed to fight with me. 

And man, did we fight.

Those knock-down drag-out brawls where we’d be set on nothing short of complete and utter annihilation of the other person’s point (or feelings)…those fights were allowed.  The fights were allowed to be ugly.  They were allowed to be ruthless.  They were allowed to hurt.

Truth be told, I loved fighting with you; honestly I did.  Because, no matter how bad they got, every single fight we had  would lead us to the same realization time and time again: The realization that the bottom was never going to fall out on us.  That we were never going to give up on one another.  Never not have each other’s backs.  Even if we needed days, weeks, months to get over something.

To give up on one another…that…simply was not allowed.  Ever.

You were even allowed to leave me. 

You were allowed to decide that you needed something else in a partner.  You were allowed to meet someone else and be happy with them.  I would have allowed it.  Because I’d still have been able to have your back, though someone else would have your heart.

You were allowed to find someone your family liked, someone who loved themselves more, who didn’t press you so hard on every…single…stupid…thing.  You were allowed to do that, babe, if it made you happy, because at times, I certainly didn’t feel like I made you happy.  And you deserved nothing short of that.

You weren’t allowed to die.

Not even a little bit.  It wasn’t even something to be discussed.

You weren’t allowed to leave me here and not take me with you.  We had adventures planned…together.  I wanted to go everywhere with you, and you went to the one place I can’t get to, and to say that that completely breaks my heart is the understatement of a lifetime.

And I can’t talk to you again, and I can’t call you again, and I can’t see you again, and I can’t figure out what exactly you expect me to do because you’re not here for me to ask you, and that wasn’t ever allowed.

You’re gone.  You stopped living.  You broke the rules.

But I didn’t, so I still have to follow the rules we set for one another: I have to be tenacious.  I have to be honest.   To be a better version of myself every day.  I have to walk outside everyday in a world you’re not in anymore and continue to try to be a good person.  And I have to do it without my best friend, my wing man; I have to do it without my heart.  And I have to pretend that it isn’t utterly exhausting just to keep breathing sometimes.

And sometimes, it’s too much, and I just miss you.

And I know…I’m not allowed to fall completely apart.  Or to give up on myself.  Or give up on people.  I know that because you made those rules very clear over and over again when you were right here next to me.  You believed in me.  Always.

I know I’m not allowed to turn into a person you wouldn’t be proud to know.  I’m not allowed to turn into a person you wouldn’t recognize.  I’m not allowed to turn into a person who stops showing up for her friends or family.  And I won’t .

I’m not allowed to let the space in my heart that held all of the joy and happiness you brought me turn into a sanctuary for bitterness and anger and resentment.  That place is only allowed to be filled with goodness.  With you.

And even though you were way better at following the rules than I was…I’ll finally say what I never said during any fight we had, and that is: Ok, babe…you win.  I’ll follow the rules…some days more so than others though, but I’ll do it.

But one rule I need to make absolutely clear to you is that I am allowed to keep loving you…forever.  And I will, babe.  Every day.  Without fail.

The Word “Widow” Doesn’t Cut It

The other day, someone asked me whether I would consider myself a widow.

I know that people need labels, but honestly I haven’t thought much into what I would call myself.  Things have been confusing recently.

The amount of times that question has come up has caused me to really have to ask myself what John and I were.  What was he to me and me to him?

Was he my  “boyfriend?”  No…the word itself sounds so trivial.  The word “partner” seems to fit, but doesn’t seem to capture the gravity of our relationship.   So then there’s “husband” or “spouse,” which for some reason seem to be the terms that carry the most legitimacy, but apparently, John and I missed out on the paperwork and fees that those terms require.  So…oh well.

But when I sit and think about it, even if he were my husband, and I was his widow…those words just, frankly, seem to fall flat.  There’s an emptiness to them, a vagueness in regards to the journey and path that our relationship carved into who we were and who I am.

What is the emotional difference between a boyfriend, partner, and husband?  And why does it matter so much to people?  Honestly, I don’t know.  I guess people need to make as much sense out of senseless events as they can, and the labels help.

But I can’t help people with that. I don’t know if I would consider myself a widow for one simple reason: I didn’t lose my husband.

John wasn’t my husband, not even a little bit.  He was so much more.  He was a part of my spirit.  He was a soulmate.  I lost the person who made me…me.  As someone else put it so perfectly, I  lost the echo of my life.

Is there a word for that?

John wasn’t my husband, but I would listen to his heart beat for fun.  Forty-two beats per minute.  It was the slowest…heartbeat… I had… ever… heard.  When we were lying around together, bored on a weekend,  I would ask if I could listen to it.  It fascinated me…how I could fit two of my heart beats into his one.  How even our inner workings seemed to balance one another out.

He wasn’t my husband…but I enjoyed hearing him live.  Literally.  That slow rhythmic beat that told me I was not alone in this world.  That I was his and he was mine.  I didn’t lose my husband, but I lost that.  What is the word for that?

He wasn’t my husband, but we would talk about the future.  The real future.  Not about the wedding and dresses and engagement rings, but of the struggle that would come with married life.  The arduous nature of military life and how he would miss out on the kids’ birthday parties because of deployments and how he would have to cope with the inevitable moments where I might feel resentful that I had to give up everything I knew in order to support his career.  We would talk about it.  The struggle of a life together where we knew we would have to fight to make each other happy and recommit ourselves to each other every single day.  I didn’t lose my husband, but I lost the promise and chance of a future with someone who would fight with me and for me.

A friend of mine once described the nature of relationships and said that people start off as squares, and that life chips away at us until we are whittled into little jig-saw pieces.  And at some point we meet someone who just “slots” into those pieces that are missing from us.  And that person makes you not fully whole…but makes you just a bit better.  They make life a little less scary.  And they make you a lot more fearless.  I lost that.

John told me once that I “helped heal the broken parts of him,” and he did the same for me.   And he died.  Even the word “died” doesn’t seem to fit:  He was ripped away.  Wrenched out of my life.  And for a while there, my life felt like it was meant to feel like punishment.

He died.  He wasn’t my husband.  He was not my spouse.  I am not his widow.  But that hasn’t stopped him from continuing to fight for me and our love in ways that I simply cannot explain.

We never got married, but I know that my phone will ring with only his name flashing on the screen and no way to hang up on the call and no record of it after I finally have to turn off my phone.  I know that my five year old niece started saying phrases that were shared only between me and him.   I know that the one time I needed four quarters to fill my tires up with air, a student of mine randomly walked up to me and handed them to me and said: not sure if you need these, but here.

He wasn’t my husband but I know the first time that I sent him a voice note a month after he died, I asked if he was proud of me.  And when I got home that day and opened my apartment door, a red balloon floated in from literally God knows where and nestled at my feet.  What is the word for when someone dies, yet they keep showing up for you?  What’s the word?

I know he’s dead.  Not my husband…but my partner.  My best friend.  My hype man.  I know’s he gone, but I also know that he’s found ways to make sure that even though I’m struggling with emotions that range from agony to grotesque indifference, I’ve never had to deal with feeling lonely.  Because I somehow still know he’s here.  Whispering.  And guiding.  And loving.  And honestly, spooking me out a bit, which I’m sure he is absolutely loving.

I know he’s dead and people need a way to refer to me, so the best thing I can come up with right now is that I’m not a widow…because I’m still very much his girl.  His person.  His best friend.  In heart and body and soul.  Because those are the only labels that really ever mattered.

img_0825