8:22 AM
Day 19
Sleep: five hours; no dreams. AGAIN.
Eating: ate a bit yesterday so I could safely have a bourbon and drive home.
Emotional state: no change. If anything, every day is a little bit WORSE than the day before, because it's one more day since I had Doug with me.
Some woman in a group to which I belong (not a grief group), just tried to tell me she understands exactly how I feel because her husband of two years left her and never wanted to speak to her again.
Because sure, that's EXACTLY the same. 🤦♀️
Another woman, IN a grief group, told me that I shouldn't complain about having so little time with Doug, because having more years of memories makes it hurt MORE. Really? How she could possibly know what it's like to mourn AN ENTIRE LIFE that Doug and I won't ever get to make and share?!? I don't even get to mourn the life we had; I have to mourn the life we never GOT to have.
I've become a member of this horrible, sad, lonely club - one I never wanted to join, and one in which I'm completely alone. Because no matter how many people have lost their spouses, no one's experience matches mine.
In my grief, I've come to realize that I will NEVER be understood. Not really. Certainly not like Doug understood me.
That deep and profound loneliness is a pain unlike anything I've ever experienced. It's unlike anything I've ever IMAGINED. It doesn't go away, no matter how much I distract myself with TV, or friends, or anything that.
Missing Doug consumes my every waking minute. And no one can tell me when it will become bearable. And I'm pretty sure that's because it never will.
I just want to be where he is, even if that's nowhere.
9:29 AM
Reading this book at the suggestion of Heather McKanna. (Yes, I'm aware that the title is beyond ludicrous, given that it's me we're talking about.)
This whole passage... this is just ONE of the daily struggles, every time I have to interact with someone who doesn't know anything about the hell I'm forced to live in.
10:04 AM
I could probably post this ENTIRE BOOK in a series of quotes that are SPOT THE FUCK ON.
I've actually heard this: at least you HAD that love. You should be grateful for that.
MOTHERFUCKER, SHUT YOUR FACEHOLE. My life would be INFINITELY less painful if I HADN'T had Doug's love. Having it and losing it is far worse. Were you BORN this stupid, or did you have to cultivate it?
Oh my God.
This book is wonderful, and it's also one long list of triggers.
5:27 PM
Saw my grief counselor today; another marathon session.
She still thinks I'm doing everything right: feeling my feelings, communicating them clearly, journaling (not just here on Facebook, folks: Mic Rex made me a lovely journal that I'm using for stuff that's not fit for public consumption), not self-medicating with drugs and alcohol, seeing friends when I'm up for it. Evidently, I'm ACING grief. 🙄
I told her that several people have suggested meds (sleeping pills and/or antidepressants), and she said that if she thinks I need them, she'll tell me. So my promise to all of you: if SHE says I need to consider it, then I will. Until then, meds are not on the table.
She insists that this level of intense despair and loneliness won't last forever. I'd like to believe that, but I don't. How will I ever NOT feel this much despair when my entire life has been stolen from me? When OUR entire life was stolen from US?
One of the folks who were giving me a hard time the other day (no names, and we're cool now), said, "I just can't bear to see you in this much pain." What I told that person is, "If it's unbearable for you to SEE me hurting this much, just think about how bad it is to BE THE ONE LIVING IT every second of the day."
OF COURSE I don't want to live, feeling like this. NO sane person WOULD.
Happiness isn't even a dream for me right now. The ability to CARE about anything but how much I hurt isn't even a dream right now. My only dream, at the moment, is to simply stop existing so I can be with Doug.
And if I can have a conversation without crying, or make a joke, or LAUGH at a joke, that doesn't mean I'm doing better. It just means that, for that moment, I'm either putting on a really effective mask, or I'm compartmentalizing. The tears are never far away, trust. Don't interpret one normal (ish) conversation as meaning that I'm on the road to recovery: there is no road; there's not even a trail to follow. And a "good" day today doesn't mean I won't be on the floor crying for 20 hours tomorrow.
One of the hardest parts of this, for me, is my overwhelming need to feel understood, but that's a fool's errand. No one can understand. Even people who've lost their spouses can't understand. Sure, we're all in this club of the widowed, but each of us is in our own room in that clubhouse, with no entry for anyone else and no escape for us. I'm putting together a thought experiment for you - for those of you who REALLY want to try and understand where I'm coming from - but it's gonna take a day or two to put all the pieces together.
Doug understood me better than anyone. He's the ONE person who could be in that room with me, and understand me, and comfort me. But of course, he can't do that. What a horrific cosmic joke, right?
Another horrible cosmic joke: when I took Kellogg out this morning, I could smell flowers in bloom. There's something especially cruel about losing the love of your life just as the world is waking up from its annual slumber.
I don't know where I'm going with this. I don't feel better - if anything, every day feels worse, and there's no roadmap to feeling better. I DO know that I'm not who I was until February 20 at about 6:20 PM. I don't know who I am now, or who I'm going to be tomorrow, let alone next year.
And that loss - not only of Doug, but of who I was with him and because of him - that may be the most terrifying part of all.
9:00 PM
Forgot to mention one of the topics that came up during today's session:
I'm afraid of being out in public because I don't want to embarrass myself by crying inappropriately (which is itself ridiculous, because there's NOTHING inappropriate about my sadness).
Our society is fucked up in many, many ways, and it's especially fucked up when it comes to death. Death scares us, and grief makes us uncomfortable (see my earlier post about how unbearable it is for people to see me this way).
Rather than TALK about that - the fear, the discomfort, the NEED to fix this unfixable thing, the NEED to believe that the grieving can ever move on or get better... we sanitize it. We have a funeral, and then we're largely expected to be done.
At 19 days into this horrible new world, I'm nowhere CLOSE to "done." I've got a sink full of dirty dishes (for the cats, because they're eating plenty) that I can't get motivated to wash. Taking a SHOWER requires monumental effort. Being able to work again is not even the remotest of possibilities right now. So no: I'm not "done." From what I understand, I'll NEVER really be "done." What would that even look like? To me, "done" would mean it's as though Doug never happened. And that's wrong. SO WRONG.
That's why I've been so open about what I'm going through. I'm not particularly proud of essentially having a complete mental and emotional breakdown for public consumption, but maybe if other people had done that, I wouldn't feel so isolated right now. Maybe I wouldn't feel so certain that my life is over. Maybe I would've been SLIGHTLY better prepared for how FUCKING GODAWFUL this is, because the sanitized version of grief most people show to the general public? That did not give me a CLUE what to expect.
So, if you find yourself wondering why I'm posting what seems like the same thoughts over and over, it's because that's what my brain is doing: HAVING the same thoughts over and over.
If you find yourself wondering why I'm posting about my pain in such depth that it hurts YOU, it's because I process emotions by talking about them. Doug used to be my sounding board; without him, it's all of you. Don't you feel lucky?
Honestly, I'm probably going to be this way for a long time; probably much longer than you'll think is reasonable if you haven't had to join this shitty club. And I've resigned myself to the possibility that I may lose some friends because of it - I know it's hard to be around me and to see this unrelenting despair day after day. I get it. It's pretty hard to LIVE it, too.
It makes me sad to think I might lose more people I care about on top of losing the love of my life, but I've decided that I'm not going to slap on a happy mask just so other people can feel comfortable.
If you want to stick around and continue to see the real, raw version of grief that most folks keep hidden, I welcome you and thank you for traveling this very hard terrain with me. If it's too much and you need to unfollow or unfriend me, no hard feelings. I'll miss you, but not nearly as much as I miss Doug.
On that note, it's time to walk Kellogg and then cry until I finally fall asleep.
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