The Truth Is a Cave in the Black Mountains.. (and other things)

Disclosure: The title is misleading. This post has nothing to do with Neil Gaiman. Or what I'm sure is a fantastic book. 

The other day I had a proper deep and meaningful convo with the most amazing lady. We were discussing shared life experiences and I said (*cough* complained *cough*) that one of the biggest challenges in losing a spouse when you’re 25, is that people your age have no idea how to deal with that information. So you learn to never talk about it, not even by accident. I said to her – “I hate that my ‘truth’ makes people uncomfortable and that I’ve had to craft a new ‘truth’. Something a little less intense, a little more palatable and less “feeling-y”.” And she said to me, “You know Sheryll, you cannot expect others to be comfortable with your ‘truth’ until you are comfortable with it yourself."

I really, really did not like hearing that. Because face it, I f*cking hate my truth.

Six years ago, I clung to the hope that by 2017, I would be a strong, confident woman who is comfortable with herself and aware of her self-worth. Someone who has a trailblazing career because she’s not afraid to take risks. Someone who let herself fall in love again because that’s what the truly brave do. Someone who is fit and healthy because she knows how short life can be. Someone with real depth and maturity who does not shy away from messy emotions.

Lol.

My stand-out achievement in the past year was today, when finally at age 31, I got the barista to spell my name correctly. (I’ve been going there every weekday for the past 6 months. And I spell my name out every single time. One time, they thought my name was “Shart”. It was a whole thing.)

Running away from my feelings is literally the only cardio I ever do. I actively move away from any memory of Rajeev (notice how it took me 4 paragraphs to even mention his name? That’s mad skillz, brah.) I don’t have any pictures of him around the house. I have a badge from a hen’s party I went to in 2014 that has “Hoochie mama” emblazoned in pink glitter, but not a single photograph of my dead husband. I have a job that I love but definitely does not require a two year Masters’ degree. My one goal for 2016 was to go on ONE date. Let’s just say, I have had to relax my timelines a little bit.

So yeah, my truth right now is a bit of a bummer. It’s not all bad, of course. There are some positives. But today is 6 years since he died and honestly, it’s ok if my truth is a garbage bin on a hot day. The first step to fixing a problem is acknowledging that you have one, right?

Man, I hope Step 2 has cupcakes.