Now it's just another day in hell

Today would be Doug's 67th birthday. At this very moment, we should be drinking mimosas while I prepare Eggs Benedict (with his required side of bacon, of course). I would already have given him the first of three birthday cards (one funny, one schmoopy, and one wild card - whatever spoke to me when I shopped). Probably, we would've planned a long weekend to celebrate late, either in Gatlinburg or Chattanooga, once the pandemic restrictions ease up.

Of course, none of those things can happen. Because Doug is dead. Doug has been dead for 44 days (or 35% as long as he was my husband).

I'm falling apart. After not sleeping at all Thursday night, I tried to nap yesterday, but only managed about an hour. Was up until 4:00 this morning, then slept until 8:30.

No dreams. Of course. And at this point, every night that passes without a dream with Doug in it, or SOME kind of sign that he's still with me, is just another dagger in my heart. I'm feeling it as rejection, and nothing anyone says changes that.

I'm falling apart. I haven't even been able to muster up the energy to shower since Wednesday. The dishes (mostly the cats' dishes - I'm still not really eating) are piled in the sink, the mail is piled... everywhere. Laundry is piling up. No matter what I do, all I can think of is how much I miss him. I can distract myself with watching Netflix, or talking to friends, but it never goes away.

This isn't how it was supposed to be. I'm not supposed to be here without him. I'm not supposed to be here without him, and I don't want to be here without him, and at this point, it's pretty clear to me that I'm never GOING to want to be here without him. And honestly, the next person who tells me "time heals everything" or any variation thereof (and there are MANY variations of it) is likely to get throat punched.

I'm supposed to go back to work in 16 days. I can't even take care of myself, and I can't even go more than an hour without crying, but I'm supposed to go back to work and be productive and professional; that would be hilarious if it weren't so terrifying.

I'm so tired. Tired of missing him. Tired of crying all the time. Tired of being alone. Tired of knowing that it's never going to get better and there's nothing I can do to help myself and there's nothing anyone else can do to help me.

I just want to be done. WHY can't I be done?