Woke up this morning as I do every morning: hugging my pillow so tightly that my arms are sore, my jaw sore and stiff from clenching it all night, my heart broken all over again because I woke up and because - once again - I haven't had a dream or any other kind of sign from Doug.
If you're wondering why I keep saying I don't want to live, that explains it perfectly: I'm so desperate to hold Doug that I'm squeezing my pillow in my sleep; I'm so tense that I'm clenching my jaw all night; I cry first thing every morning because I'm alive and he's not; I cry because I still haven't dreamed about him. Every day. EVERY. FUCKING. DAY.
And it's been only 22 days, people. How long can I do this? How much do I have to hurt, and for how long, before I get some RELIEF?
Yesterday, surprisingly, turned out to be... not as bad as I feared. I got a lot done in the morning, then was a zombie by the time Missy got here. But I got through that visit with only a few tears. And then I looked at Doug's death certificate, and then she left, and the tears flowed like a river.
I pulled myself together and had a nice(ish) evening with my son. I cooked, and managed to eat about half a cup of spring mix with a little ranch dressing, five mushroom ravioli with alfredo sauce (not homemade, which is an abomination, but there are limits to what I can do, y'know?), and even a piece of garlic bread. You'd think that's progress - and I suppose it is - but it doesn't feel like it.
I stayed up to keep an eye on the weather (the severe storms never materialized), and tuned in to watch Colbert; they evidently recorded yesterday's rehearsal, sans audience, because of the COVID-19 pandemic. It wasn't a bad show, but few things are really funny now, so who am I to say? But then, Seth Meyers was cancelled. I'm guessing that Colbert and the Daily Show are going to go in the same direction, so no late night comedies for me.
So, let's recap: I don't have Doug (or even the smallest of signs that he's still with me); I don't have ANY of the sports we used to watch together so I can watch them to stay connected to him - even GOLF has been cancelled; the late night comedies are being cancelled; next week I have to deal with FOUR enormous milestones (one month since Doug's surgery AND five months since our wedding AND St. Patrick's Day all in one day, and then one month since his death three days later).
And we're supposed to be engaging in social distancing, so at the time when I need love and closeness the most, I have to be as alone physically as I am emotionally. HOW MUCH MORE AM I SUPPOSED TO TAKE?
It's not enough that he's gone? I have to lose all the activities that used to connect me to him? And I can't even fill that time with socializing because of a pandemic that happened to strike here at the worst possible time?
I don't need to worry about Hell, people: I'm living it right now, and there's no escaping it.
Sure, I can watch stuff on Netflix, or Hulu, or Amazon Prime. But none of those are things we watched together. I need Doug. If he's not going to visit me, then the closest I can get is doing things or watching things we used to do and watch together. But in another burst of cruelty, the universe has made that impossible, too.
Is all of this some kind of karmic punishment? Did Doug have to die to teach me some kind of lesson? And if that's true, what's the lesson? Don't be happy, because it'll be snatched right away from me? Don't love, and don't let anyone love me, because they'll be stolen from me? Is the lesson that the universe screwed up and gave me true love and happiness by mistake when in reality I'm supposed to be alone and lonely and empty and dead inside?
Full disclosure: the past few days, I've been playing the "I don't want to live anymore" attitude for laughs, because I think it's easier for my close friends and family to handle it that way. It lets them think I'm making progress, and it takes the pressure off of me to reassure them that I'll be okay. But it's not funny, and I'm not joking, and I'm not going to be okay.
Living without Doug is nothing but torture from the minute I wake up until the minute I go to sleep. Every night, before I finally collapse in exhaustion, I wish that I won't wake up in the morning. And every morning, when I wake up in spite of myself, I curse existence itself for making me stay here without him.
No matter what anybody wants to think, I'm not strong, and I'm not an inspiration. For the love of Cthulu, what is it with people expecting those of us who are suffering to inspire them? I'm not here to make you feel better about the human condition; I'm not here because I'm a survivor; I'm here because I don't have the courage to make myself not be here anymore. There's nothing inspirational in that, people. No one seems to understand that. Doug would.
I find myself wondering how Doug would be doing if the situation were reversed - if I'd died suddenly and he were stuck here without me. And the truth is, I don't know. I remember telling him - some time ago - that if anything happened to me, I'd want him to find someone else and be happy. I remember him scoffing at the notion. I know he'd be devastated; I know he'd feel as lost as I do. That doesn't give me any comfort, because the thought of him suffering is even worse than suffering it myself.
But we never talked about what he'd want me to do if he died first, even though we knew odds were that would be the case. Doug wasn't comfortable talking about (or preparing for the possibility of) death. I feel pretty confident that he'd want me to find a way to be happy; I don't think he'd want me to live out my remaining time on this shit hole plane of existence as a lonely, scared, bitter woman.
Problem is, without him, that's exactly what I am. And with the way the whole fucking world is falling apart, there seems to be no way to not be a lonely, scared, bitter woman.
I'm alone. So completely alone.
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