Article March 1, 2004 Issue

I was angry at God

By Michelle Boccanfuso

WHEN MY HUSBAND PASSED ON, everything that I had counted on was in a state of upheaval. I was afraid of everything. I felt alone. I had a teenage daughter whom I would be raising on my own. What was her life going to be like? What was my life going to be like? Obviously I was depressed. I was deeply grieving the loss of my husband. But even more than that, there was a tidal wave of mental darkness that seemed impenetrable.

I had a really good friend who patiently and consistently called me nearly every day. Frankly, she was worried about me, and she needed to know whether I was making any progress. One afternoon about a month and a half after my husband's passing, she called to ask how I was doing. That day, I could articulate it exactly—without any filters. I didn't think I needed to couch my feelings in happy terms. And so I told her I was angry.

"At what?" she asked. And I remember thinking, "I don't know. I don't know what I'm angry at." It was enough that I could actually say I was angry. What I was thinking seemed to violate everything I had been trying to communicate to others—"Oh, everything's fine. I'm doing fine."

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