Last night, I slept for seven hours; I suppose this may be an indication that my body is finally adjusting to Doug's permanent absence, even though my heart and my mind sure aren't. But then again, I may sleep just a few hours tonight again, so what do I know? (Nothing. The answer is that I know nothing, other than that he's gone and I'm stuck here alone.)
I still haven't dreamed about him, or had any kind of sign. And that's just another level of pain, because - as a confirmed overthinker - I'm now convincing myself that either he's angry at me for something, or he's moved on to wherever he's going and isn't thinking about me at all, or he's just gone and doesn't exist in any form, anywhere. I'm not sure which of those three is the worst possibility.
Doug died three weeks ago. 21 days. After more than four years of texting every day, and talking to each other every day, and then eventually seeing each other every day and sleeping together every night, I've had three weeks of total silence (three weeks and three days, if you count the fact that the last time he spoke to me was just before he was taken back for the surgery that was supposed to make him well but instead ended up being the cause of his death).
You'd think that someone as independent as I am would adjust well to losing a life partner. But you'd think wrong. SO VERY WRONG.
See, after decades of pathological independence, and never really trusting or relying on anyone, I let that ALL go with Doug. He got every bit of love that I held back from every other man who has ever been in my life. Doug was the lucky recipient of a TSUNAMI of love that had been denied everyone else, because he was the first man who ever genuinely loved ME; he didn't love what he thought I could do for him, or the fantasy version of me that he conjured up in his mind: Doug loved me FOR me and just because I AM me.
Imagine not ever really loving someone in a romantic way until you're 50 years old. Imagine all that pent-up love with nowhere to go, finally finding a home. I held nothing back; I loved him with everything I had, and he loved me the same way, and it was fucking GLORIOUS.
And then he was gone, and all that love has nowhere to go again. It's excruciating. It's a need, a physical and emotional need, to share that love. I need to hold him. I need to smell him. I need to snuggle up to him. I need to cook for him. I need to bring him his morning coffee.
But he's not here, and I can't. I can't do any of those things. And it just DOESN'T STOP HURTING.
How long can I hang on, hurting this much? How do people function like this? Other widows manage to go back to work far earlier than three weeks out, and they're able to be useful. I can't seem to function for more than a few minutes at a time, and even that is iffy. Every minute that I'm awake, I'm desperately sad, and lonely, and aching for him.
A couple of days ago, I said I wanted to put together a thought experiment to help y'all understand just why this is so hard on me. I'm still working on that, but it's going to require a lot of digging deep into my history with relationships, and that's hard to write about. I'm still planning to do it, but please be patient.
We're expecting more severe weather late tonight into the overnight hours, and I'm once again on the fence about the storm shelter. There's absolutely no way to put the pets in there without being in there with them, but I'm still firmly planted in "I don't want to live without him" territory. And I really don't. The night he died, I said that there's nothing here for me without Doug. I still feel that way.
I know that's not fair to all the people who loved him and who love me, but they aren't in my skin. They don't get it, and they can't get it (hence the upcoming thought experiment). It's not that I don't love them, because I do. It's simply that having to live without Doug is so painful that NOTHING is worth living in this much pain.
And it's not as though I can find some small shred of relief anywhere: he wasn't chronically or terminally ill, so I can't say "he's not in pain anymore" or get some peace from getting a respite from being a long-term caregiver. Our marriage, while not perfect, was ROCK SOLID, and it was our greatest source of joy and fun and happiness, so it's not as though his death gets me out of a dysfunctional relationship. We made each other happier than either of us had ever been before, and now I'm sadder and lonelier than I ever was - even sadder and lonelier than I was as an angsty teenager convinced no one would ever love me.
To go from the greatest happiness ever to the most profound sadness ever is unbearable. And yet I'm bearing it despite wishing my body would just give up.
And I have yet to talk to even ONE widow or widower who says that they're now truly happy. I hear things like, "I've managed to find a way to be fulfilled" or "I find joy in other parts of life," but universally, they all continue to feel the big, gaping hole in their hearts where their partners used to reside.
I lived half a life for far too long. With Doug, I found a full, beautiful life. I don't want to go back to living halfway; I can't. But he's gone, and gone with him is that full, beautiful life that we built together.
I've had people tell me that I can choose to be happy, and I want to throttle those people. No, I cannot. I cannot convince myself that I can ever be happy without love; without Doug's love, to be specific. I don't blame them: they didn't get to share their lives with him, so they have no idea what I've lost.
But I do.
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