Three-day weekends are especially difficult. That's surprising, given that the days all rather blend together for the most part, and yet here we are. On long weekends, Doug and I would luxuriate a bit: Eggs Benedict and crisp roasted potatoes rather than plain old bacon and eggs with toast/biscuits and preserves (our typical weekend breakfast); a little afternoon nap (or not-a-nap, depending on our mood), some time outdoors, grilling out, and lots of conversation ranging from deep philosophical subjects to the most sublimely silly nonsense.
Yes, I could have made Eggs Benedict for myself (but I didn't, because that's far too much work for a meal that only I will eat). I could have taken a nap (but I didn't, because when I tried I couldn't shut my brain off enough to sleep). I could have gone for a drive, but again - no fun doing that without Doug riding shotgun. I could have grilled out, but I can't grill worth a shit. It was a day of deep and profound sadness punctuated by the occasional moment of humor.
Being lonely for the one person whose company you'll never enjoy again is a pain that defies description and cannot be understood by anyone who hasn't been here. It is a pain that cannot be healed, or softened, or lessened. It is a loneliness that cannot be overcome, or even the slightest bit eased, by anyone else. It is the emotional equivalent of death by a thousand paper cuts. Except that the paper is actually a straight razor. And each cut is immediately filled with salt. And that razor keeps cutting me everywhere, over and over again, until every square inch of my flesh is ripped open and bleeding and full of salt. And I've lived that pain pretty much nonstop for the past 94 days.
My desire to talk to Doug - my longing, my YEARNING - it's so overwhelming that I can't breathe when I let myself really feel it for more than a few seconds. And frankly, it's almost embarrassing: I worked very hard, for a very long time, to become a woman who didn't need a man to 'complete' her - a woman who didn't need a man in order to be happy. But that man... I need him. My God, how I need him. I am SO unbearably lonely without Doug. Everything is flat and empty, as though all the color and energy and dimension in the world has been sucked away, leaving a bleak, gray, cold, dystopian hellscape.
It's not just conversation that I desperately need: Doug and I were very affectionate, and to go from that to not being touched at all is like another log in the fire of my despair. And I'm not talking about sex (well, not only that); I'm talking about hugs, and the way he would stroke my hair at night if I was having trouble falling asleep, and the way he'd hold my hand when we watched TV, and the way he'd kiss me every time we walked past each other. Physical touch is one of my primary love languages, and I genuinely believe that missing Doug's touch may be the thing that ultimately kills me (but that's a subject for another post).
I am now so alone that I have become one of those people who could die and no one would even notice for days; my pets would eat my remains before anyone even showed up. Do you have any idea what it's like to go from being the world to the person who's the world to you... to being someone who could be dead for days without anyone even missing them? THAT, my friends, is ALONE. And it's my reality, now and for the rest of my days. For the record, if your knee-jerk response to this paragraph is to tell me that you'll check on me every day so that an untimely death won't go unnoticed for days, I want you to re-read everything I've written since I started this blog because you're COMPLETELY missing the point.
The pain is overwhelming, and I just want it to stop before it drives me insane. And yet, it lives on. It grows within me and around me. It's become an entity of its own, cloaking me in despair and longing, and making me smaller every day. For four short, beautiful years, I was Doug's world and he was mine. Now, I'm nobody's world. I'm not sure I'm even really a person anymore; I'm pain and anger and loneliness in a human suit. How's that for quality of life, hmmm? A life with no joy, with loneliness that won't ever go away because the only person who could relieve that loneliness is dead? A life that has to continue only because "life is a precious gift"? Well, I disagree. My life is not a precious gift, not anymore. My life is now a curse.
And, my goodness, how that pisses people off! I cannot tell you how many people have told me that I have to keep trying, because it's worth it. Is it? Really? Tell me, how does someone else - someone who is NOT living my life - determine that MY life is worth living? News flash, folks: you can't get in someone else's head, and you cannot know what's "worth it" to them.
When I was a little girl and a young woman, ALL I WANTED was to be the quintessential mid-century housewife. I wanted to make a home and raise a family. After divorcing Thing One, I adjusted: I'll have the career, and I'll raise my son, but I still wanted a long, happy marriage. After divorcing Thing Two, I adjusted again: fuck marriage; fuck relationships; I'll just be alone.
But then, Doug came along. And with him, back came that dream for a long, happy marriage. Except that this time, I got it right. I finally had the love I'd wanted my whole life, and I was going to get that long, happy marriage.
And now he's gone. I've already explained, in excruciating detail, why I'm not going to have another shot at that dream of a long, happy marriage. I've already explained, in excruciating detail, repeatedly, why life without that long, happy marriage to Doug is not a life I'm interested in living, but I'll reiterate:
- Vacations without the man I love to share it with me are not vacations; they're nothing but a change of location.
- Building or buying the dream house that Doug and I planned is not a dream worth indulging without him. What good is a beautiful, spacious, functional kitchen when I have no one to eat what I make except for myself? What good is a beautiful home if it's filled not with love but with sadness?
- My primary love language is physical touch; spending the next 10 or 20 or 30 years celibate? Without ever being kissed, caressed, hugged by the man I love most who loves me most in return? No thanks.
- Having to go through my days and nights without my love to talk to about anything, everything, and nothing is exceedingly lonely.
I'm going to say this again, and I'm going to use bold type and small words so that it's easy to understand: The only life I want was stolen from me 94 days ago. The only life available to me is one I do not want. AND YOU DON'T GET TO CHOOSE WHAT MAKES LIFE WORTH LIVING FOR ANYONE WHO ISN'T YOU.
FFS, I promised that I won't kill myself, but that's not good enough for you people? I have to not only stay in this life I don't want, but I have to decide that it's worth living, too? Even though I know damn well it's not?
One more time for the folks in the back: YOU DON'T GET TO CHOOSE WHAT MAKES LIFE WORTH LIVING FOR ANYONE WHO ISN'T YOU.
Supposedly, I live in a free country. Literally millions of Americans are refusing to stay home or maintain appropriate social distancing or wear masks when they go out, risking millions of lives under the guise of freedom, and nobody's stopping them. And yet, I'm forced by social convention to continue living - against my will - a life that holds no joy and no hope for joy in the future.
Somehow, I don't feel free at all.
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