That post-Camp Widow letdown...

After going to Camp Widow--the national widowhood conference run by the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation (SSLF)--for the past three years, I should know to expect a bit of a letdown, a post-Camp low, after I return home.

Yet somehow I was still surprised when I felt it yesterday afternoon, less than a full day after returning home.

I went to the first conference two years ago, in 2009. Mostly I went because several online buddies--all fellow widowed bloggers--were going and it was a fantastic opportunity to meet them all in person, all at one time. And I wasn't disappointed; it was everything I'd hoped it to be, and more.

Camp Widow 2009

But the post-Camp letdown that year was masked by the horrific death of our dog on the last day of the conference. When I got home I was too busy reacting to his death, to Anna's reaction, and my own grief to pay any attention to any possible slump.

And last year, my second year attending, any low after Camp was again superseded by sheer exhaustion after 5 long days in Disneyland with Anna and my mother-in-law, 2 days of driving, and time spent visiting family. I was so fried and tired in general that I didn't have time to write much about Camp, nor to document if I was aware of a low; plus, I had two weeks to prepare myself for photographing my friends' wedding in early September. I was too busy and distracted to slump too much, but I remembered reading on blogs and Facebook that some friends from Camp did.

I didn't really say much about it ahead of time, but I was one of the speakers at this year's conference. (Really, I was just too busy and had too much going on in the weeks before Camp to blog about it.) But I joined Dan Cano, Monday's blogger on Widow's Voice and writer on Dan in Real Time, to lead a workshop for the newly widowed. And as we prepared our content for the last month, one aspect that we included in our outline was what to expect from Camp Widow--and that a low after Camp is quite common.

I had a fabulous time at Camp this year. Unlike last year, when all I wanted to do was hang out with old friends, talk, laugh, drink, and go dancing (translation: I wasn't terribly interested in the conference itself or meeting new people), I made a point to be more invested in the process of the conference itself. I'd felt guilty for how selfishly hedonistic I'd been the previous year--even though I knew it didn't matter one iota--and I wanted to have a different mindset this year. I knew how much I'd valued the new friendships and connections I made with strangers that first year, and I knew how little effort I made last year. So helping present a session was a way to answer both needs (and pay for attending the conference, too).

Thankfully, it was a wonderful, smart move. Dan and I did our session early on Friday afternoon, which meant that my official duties were done early in the weekend and before friends started arriving. Plus, it put me in a mental space of being more open and approachable, of talking to more people…instead of ducking my head, avoiding eye contact with strangers, and barreling for the closest bar to meet my friends. And it worked. I put more into the conference this year, and I got more out of it as a result. The sessions I attended were enjoyable (unlike several last year when I wondered why on earth I was sitting there), and I felt less pressure to "get" specific things out of the sessions. Best of all, I still had time to hang out with friends, laugh, drink, and then dance away on Saturday night.

Hanging out by the bar and fire pit with many friends on Saturday afternoon

WIth Dan, my fearless and wonderful co-presenter

With my roommate from last year, Melodie 

Wonderful friends at the banquet Saturday night

Old friends--and a couple new ones--from last year

Roommates Jodi, Chelsea, me, Melodie

This is at least part of why I go every year--going out dancing and drinking with friends on Saturday night

Taking a break from dancing with Jodi Saturday night

I didn't get home until two days after Camp ended. I'd taken Anna with me to California this year, and she stayed in LA with Charley's cousins while I was in San Diego. We'd had a few wonderful days visiting with several of Charley's cousins, aunts, and uncles and didn't fly home until late Tuesday evening, and yesterday--our first day home--my sole goal was to do absolutely nothing.

Excited for her second airplane ride as a big girl

We'd had a fabulous, fun week, playing with cousins, visiting with family, and hanging out with friends. But then we were home. My voice was hoarse from talking so much over a week (and from a lot of singing and yelling to friends at the bar on Saturday night). I'd seen and talked to so many people that I couldn't remember what I'd said to whom. I'd barely had any time to myself for an entire week.

It was the total opposite of what I've become used to over the last two to five years.

And within half a day of arriving home, the voices started. For one glorious weekend, I got to be the very best version of me. Listening to friends' stories, sharing my own, cracking jokes that make so-called "normal" people squirm, finding Kleenexes the rare times we needed them, being open and honest and leaving little of my usual game face on.

Feeling no shame for what the last six years of my life have been. And feeling damned proud of it, actually.

With the right people, I'm generally pretty open and forthcoming with my life, including the widowed stuff as it comes up. But with my widowed friends, there's no need for filters, for guilt that I've said too much for too long or that too many of my stories still revolve around Charley or else the rippling after-effects of his death.

And once I'm home, I'm surrounded by the fakeness of my life. By the dust bunnies that scurry across my wood floors; by the dandelions persistently sprouting in my yard, the cat puke on my bedspread, the frighteningly small balances in my checking and savings accounts; by seeing what I look like in photos these days. They're the things that don't really matter in life, but as soon as I spent a few hours in my home, the fear, the lacking, and the loneliness seep back in. The possibilities and excitement I felt in San Diego fade away.

I was surprised to hear those voices start in quite so soon. But then I suddenly remembered and reminded myself: You haven't had any time to yourself in a whole week. You've talked more and been around more people in one week than you probably have for the past six months. Hello--this is your low after Camp.

The post-Camp slump didn't take the form I expected, but it was a relief to realize what it was--at least in part--so quickly, because then I could remind myself to consciously cut myself some slack. Anna's at my parents' house now for an indeterminate number of nights--playing with more cousins at Grandma's house won out over hanging out with Mom or missing her kitty cat--and I briefly thought that I should find some friends to see, to make the most of the kidless time. School starts in just over two weeks, and as of next Monday, my time will no longer be my own; I start a part-time, 9-month copyediting job (all working from home) on the 22nd.

But I realized I needed time to myself, to just be. To not have to put any sort of game face on. Camp Widow is a wonderful, amazing, affirming weekend--but it's an intense, emotional one too. Living at the cusp of all that is possible and all that was lost is exhausting, no matter how enjoyable the time was.

And so today I'm in my pajamas. The windows and patio door are thrown wide open to let the summer air drift around me. My cat--still lonely and needy after a week by herself--is plastered to me. Tears press at the back of my eyes if I think too much about what I'm writing or feeling.

Sitting and watching, talking to, listening to new widows and widowers so early on shows me how far I've come, how much I've healed and that I'm okay. That life is better again.

But being home? It reminds me of everything else. Of everything that didn't matter for one weekend, but that counts as normal, as important, for the rest of the world. It reminds me of the things I miss, of what I used to have, used to be able to do effortlessly and without thinking about it. It reminds me of Charley and how much I miss him and how much I've changed.

It reminds me, again, that the last six years really did happen. I wouldn't be attending Camp Widow if he wasn't really dead.

Right. This is my low after Camp. This is my low after a summer of squeezing my eyes shut and hoping for the best come this fall. This is my low after a difficult, worrisome, scary spring. This is my low after an exhausting, isolating school year.

This is normal….This is normal, I keep reminding myself.

And really, it probably has less to do with the letdown after Camp and more to do with the fear and uncertainty I've had to live with for the last six to nine months. I subconsciously (and consciously) held onto vacation and Camp as the thing on the horizon getting me through it all this summer. There's no point in trying to figure out [X, Y, or Z] until after mid-August, I told myself repeatedly. And now it's mid-August; it's past that safe buoy. Anna's birthday is only two weeks away, and school starts in less than three weeks, and I worry if the job I accepted will be enough money for us to scrape by on for the next nine months, and I worry…I worry….

It just happens to fall at the same time as the letdown after Camp.

Crap. ;o)

So…back to hibernating in my cave for the next few hours. Back to recuperating and trying to let go of my worry and fear. Back to just breathing and being for the next few hours, until I have to put my game face back on tomorrow afternoon.

Thanks, to all you wonderful old friends--and new ones--and family members for a wonderful, amazing week!