I know I've had a couple of days with bright spots (bright meaning a moment or two when I wasn't totally miserable), but that doesn't really mean anything. It sure doesn't fix anything. One swallow does not a summer make, and all that.
I woke up today to a crisp, cool morning with the sun dancing on the leaves of the trees in my backyard. For most people, that's a day to relish: for me, it's just another day to wish I hadn't awakened.
Made some coffee, walked the dog, fed the animals, watched the first episode of Upload, and had a few hours of distraction on Facebook. There's yet another social meme making the rounds: Ten days of pictures celebrating love/marriage. That was strike one. And then saw the news that Fred Willard died. Fun fact: you know you're a widow/er when you read his obituary, learn that his wife died two years ago, and think "good for him; he's with her now," and then find yourself envious of a dead man. That was strike two. And then the many, MANY posts - complete with pictures - of happy couples enjoying the weather and their quarantine together, and there's strike three.
Tomorrow is the 30 year anniversary of my mother's death. It's also exactly seven months since I married Doug. And three months since the surgery that killed us both.
I can't anymore. I want to take a baseball bat (or the cast iron fireplace poker) and break every window, every dish, every glass, EVERYTHING breakable in this house. I want to scream until I have no voice anymore. I want to get in my car and drive until I can't drive anymore (whether that's because I run out of gas or run into a wall, don't really care).
There is, quite literally, NO WAY for me to express the rage, the fury, the desperation that I feel nearly all the time. No wonder I'm exhausted.
I don't understand how I'm supposed to live this way. I don't understand WHY I have to live this way. I don't understand WHY I have to be alone and lonely EVERY GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING MINUTE OF EVERY GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING DAY. Nobody seems to believe me, but I AM NOT FUCKING STRONG ENOUGH FOR THIS.
And for the love of Cthulu, do NOT offer to come and hang out with me and maintain appropriate social distancing, as though that will somehow make it better or make me hurt less. THERE'S NOTHING THAT WILL MAKE IT BETTER AND I WANT IT TO STOP NOW.
Please don't interpret this as a cry for help. Don't call me, don't text me, don't offer me anything. Just leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to hear that I'm still here for a purpose: that's religious fucking bullshit, and frankly I don't even care if it's true. I DON'T GIVE A FUCK about my "purpose" if it means I have to spend my life alone without the man I love. FUCK my purpose. I've BEEN a good person. I DESERVE happiness. FUCK giving back. Fuck ALL of it.
Between Doug dying and the pandemic, it's clear that the universe WANTS me to spend whatever miserable fucking time I have left on this planet alone and alternately raging against my pathetic excuse for a life and crying so hard I can't breathe. So just leave me alone so I can do it until I can finally get off this shithole planet.
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