I wrote - a lot - about Doug and me. He'd probably be horrified - at the very least, embarrassed - that I'm sharing so much about our life together. And if he were here, I wouldn't be doing that, because he was not the kind of man who shared our relationship on social media; that love and romance... that was just for us.
But he's not here, and without him to share it with, I still need to express it. Talking about him, writing about him - that keeps him here, in a way. Not in the way I want, and certainly not in the way I need, but it keeps him close to me until he can get around to visiting me (please, baby? soon?).
I cooked for only myself tonight, for the first time since the day before Doug's surgery.
I hated it.
I didn't have to think about what Doug might want to eat. I didn't have to get out two bowls and two forks and two napkins. I didn't have to serve his food (to be fair, I never had to; I did it because it made him feel loved and because I loved him). I didn't have to go back into the kitchen to get him whatever condiment I'd forgotten. I didn't get to make my usual smartass remark, "My mother hasn't had a hot meal in fifteen years."
Cooking for myself, after more than four years of cooking for two (even when we didn't live together, I'd cook dinner on weekends), holds zero appeal. Cleaning up the dishes holds even less, because that was Doug's job.
When I came back into the living room with my bowl of pasta, for just a second my heart stopped, because Doug wasn't there. But I knew he wouldn't be there, so what's up with that? Am I going to be stunned anew every day at the realization that he's gone? Or worse, will I forget what it was like to have him at all? I mean, we were only together four years; we lived together for nearly two, and we were married just a few months.
Was our time together so short that I'll forget it? That I'll forget how much he loved me? That I'll forget to love him?
(In case you're wondering, I've been rewatching The Good Place, and it's making me think big thoughts about big concepts that hurt my brain.)
All the activity kept me from crying nonstop throughout the day, which is, I suppose progress? But it doesn't feel like it (yeah, I know I say that a lot). I'm just... more quietly despairing, whereas most other days I've been hysterically despairing.
The thing about quiet despair, though, is that it's still despair. And quiet loneliness is still loneliness.
I don't understand why I'm still here and Doug isn't. I don't understand how I keep on breathing when my entire life has been destroyed around me. I don't understand it, and I don't like it, and I feel rudderless and powerless and broken and lost and empty.
I miss his voice. I miss his smile. I miss his smell. I miss feeling his skin against mine. I miss him grasping my hand as though it's a lifeline. I miss him. And I miss who I was because of him.
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