Just another day in Hell

Finally went to sleep at 1:30. Woke up at 5:15, so we're back to not sleeping. That's great.

My head hurts. I'm nauseated. I CANNOT get warm no matter what I do. I'm sitting on the couch wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt and wool socks and bundled up with TWO blankets. And I'm still freezing. And I mean FREEZING: teeth chattering, goose bumps, the works. No, it's not SARS-CoV-2; it's grief and exhaustion. I know what it feels like when I have a fever, and I don't have a fever. This is a bone-chilling cold that's in my soul, and it's seeping out into my body.

At this point, I wish it were SARS-CoV-2. At least that would give me hope that my misery might end soon.

Went to sleep crying, woke up crying, brushed my teeth crying (even though it still makes me gag every time, I brush my teeth anyway), made coffee (that I can't even drink because I'm nauseated) crying, and I'm still crying. It's been raining since yesterday, too - even the planet's crying. I don't even care anymore. I just want it to end. All of it. Every route of escape and distraction that would keep me connected to Doug has been taken away. Socializing with other people has been taken away (sorry; Facebook and phone calls aren't enough - to be fair, in-person socializing probably wouldn't be enough either). My career has been taken away. Theatre has been taken away. Music has been taken away. Doug has been taken away. I'VE been taken away.

My existence (not my life; I don't have one of those anymore) is limited to this 1600-sq ft house. Scratch that: really, it's limited to the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom. No, I don't know the square footage of those three rooms. But it's small. My life is small. My brain has become small: I can't hold a thought beyond my ability to write about missing Doug. My heart has become small: it's gone from being a large, warm, open heart full of love to a tiny, hard pellet that can't feel anything but pain.

I am sentient pain. That's all I am.

Standard disclaimer: No, I'm not suicidal. No, I'm not going to kill myself. I wish I could, but I won't.

But I'm going to keep begging the God I don't believe in, the universe, and Doug to just come and get me and end this torment.

Sartre said that "Hell is other people." He was wrong; SO wrong.

Hell is THIS: alone, without the man I love and without myself. Hell is being lost and trapped in a world that carries on without Doug. Hell is being expected to create a life without him, even though that life no longer has any purpose or joy or meaning without him. Hell is having to deal with people who honestly believe I can build a life with purpose and joy and meaning without Doug, when I know with ABSOLUTE certainty that they're wrong. Hell is knowing that all this insanity - the pandemic, the lack of sports, the inability to socialize - ALL of it would be manageable, even FUN, with Doug. Hell is knowing that, even if the rest of the world hadn't gone crazy, none of it is manageable without him.