It's all shit

Today has been awful. My head still hurts. I'm still nauseated, but I forced myself to eat anyway. I'm still freezing. Mind you, it's 71 degrees, and I'm freezing.

I've cried most of the day. Took a short break to drive over to the local JoAnn's and pick up some art supplies, because writing as my sole form of expression is not getting the job done. And then, thinking about what I might be able to do with those supplies, I started crying again and cried all the way home. Took a short break to talk to Andrew, and then cried some more. Have yet to even open any of the art supplies I bought.

And on The Facebook (as Doug used to ironically call it, because, y'know, we're old), everyone is trying to make the best of a bad situation by posting about how grateful they are to be holed up with their spouses, and all the little things they're thankful for. And I'm actually jealous. How fucked up is that? What kind of person is JEALOUS when the people they love are happy?

And I'm not thankful for a damn thing. Not even my son, as one person suggested. I love him, and I wish I could be thankful for him, but I don't have gratitude in me. Not for anything. All I have is a pile of (metaphorical) shit that gets bigger every day.

Let's just recap my past 28 days, shall we?

• My husband died, four months and three days after our wedding - all by itself, this was more than enough to make me long for the sweet release of death, BUT WAIT: THERE'S MORE!
• A tornado came through and destroyed friends' homes and left other friends without power for days, but didn't have the decency to kill me - and I was too paralyzed by grief to even help anyone
• A fucking PANDEMIC started circulating, but IT hasn't had the kindness to come for me either
• I haven't had a hug in over a week, because the only people I've been around are my grief counselor and my therapist - and they're going to telehealth-only visits effective now
• My sister has no idea when she'll be able to get back here
• My son refuses to come over, because he was working in his office as recently as last Friday and doesn't want to take the chance on getting me sick (even though I'd welcome that at this point), so he won't see me in person until it's been 14 days since he started self-isolating: that's a week from tomorrow
• Even getting food that I might conceivably want to eat is a struggle, because the hoarders are clearing out the grocery stores
• Again, I'm too paralyzed by grief to help anyone who might need it

Tomorrow will be one month since Doug died, and every passing day has gotten MORE painful, MORE challenging, and MORE exhausting. I'm at the end of my rope. Something's gotta give, but nothing will. I miss him. I cannot bear being stuck here, all alone, 24 hours a day, without Doug. I need him now more than ever, and he's not here. And he'll never be here again. And I can't take it.

Right about now, the only hope I have is that maybe my body will finally take pity on me and let me die in my sleep. Because life wasn't living after February 20, and NOTHING that's happened since has moved the needle even a little.