Awkward

When I was a kid and my mom took me clothes shopping, I often overheard her explaining to the clerk helping us that her daughter was “you know, in that awkward in-between stage.” I know she didn’t mean to become the internalized voice of how I see myself perpetually in an awkward in-between stage, she was just trying to make sense of a growing kid who didn’t fit off-the-rack clothes very well. I still don’t. I’m 5’8 and have a 6′ arm-span. My legs are longer than my 6’1 husband’s were or my 5’11 kid’s are. But this awkward in-between stage is such an apt description of how I’m processing grief, too.

We’re probably all familiar with the stages of grief–denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance and how they can overlap and jumble, or be multiple at once. I was pretty aware of how sadness and heartbreak would be part of my reality for a long time. What folks don’t talk about much, at least from what I’ve noticed, is the weird shit that comes with grief. Awkward. When I laugh, it’s louder, harder, more intense. Food either tastes amazing and better than ever or I want absolutely nothing to do with it. The gamut of emotions smacking me like a tuna in the face every day has me scratching my chin going, “wha’happened?” I want to hide in a blanket fort AND hug every stranger and be best friends with their dogs. Comedic literary tropes about widows come from stereotypes based in fact. Here we’ve experienced loss and death and are craving life and connection. No worries, we live in a small town and no major decision for a while, but those feelings are THERE, intense and incredibly awkward.

I’m trying to find stable ground and understand this new reality while also feeling like an over-inflated balloon that someone just let go. There’s no framework or context to put these things. So like everything else I acknowledge them and feel them and embrace the awkward.