Get yourself a nice drink and settle in, folks, because this is a long one. On the bright side, it's not going to be misery-inducing, so at least there's that.
It's not news to anyone that I'm angry: the love of my life is dead, I have no social life (beyond the tiny virtual social life I've been able to cobble together thanks to Zoom and book club), I'm lonely beyond what I ever could've have dreamed up in my worst nightmares, I'm surrounded by covidiots who are keeping this damn pandemic as widespread as possible for as long as possible (thereby keeping me from having an actual social life), I'm not able to do my job at anywhere close to my former capacity, and I can't do any of the things I need or want to do that might ease the pain or help me feel close to Doug.
It's not news to anyone that I'm feeling generally crappy, considering that I've been living on one "meal" a day - and usually a frozen or prepared meal at that, because I haven't been able to bring myself to cook more than a few times in the past five months. I honestly can't remember the last time I ate a fresh vegetable or piece of fruit.
I keep half-joking that I should be a size 10 by now, given how little I'm eating, but it's not surprising that I'm still fat AF, because fat people are super effective at hanging onto fat under normal circumstances: throw in sky-high cortisol (from stress and constant, simmering rage), lack of sleep, and no real exercise, and of course I'm hanging on to every ounce of fat I've got.
And it's surely not news to anyone that I don't want this life - not without Doug.
But I've reached something of a crossroads: if I could have willed myself to die, it would've happened long before now, so clearly that's not happening - at least not today, and probably not any time soon. And while I still have no doubt that my desire not to be anymore isn't going to go away no matter what, the fact is that I'm here, and I've got to find a way to deal with being here and not end up in the nearest mental hospital.
Here's the challenge, though: the only way I'm going to be to able to integrate with society - and be remotely functional again - is to get some rest and find a healthy way to deal with my anger (and preferably, one that doesn't scare my poor pets). And the only way to get rest and deal with my anger productively means doing things that will extend my life: eating actual food and working my body to exhaustion. Y'all know I don't want to extend my life. But something's gotta give before I snap.
A couple of weeks ago, someone on Reddit recommended an Oculus Quest VR headset, because there's a boxing game for it that's supposedly really good. This intrigued me, as I think I've mentioned I'd love to go to a boxing gym if not for the fact that there's a pandemic going on. So, I bought one (yes, I'm very lucky that I can afford to make an impulse buy like that), thinking I'd give it to my son if I hated it. It was delivered Monday. I charged it Tuesday, went through the setup on Wednesday, and tried out the boxing app for a half-hour before spouse grief group on Thursday.
Y'all, I did NOT hate it. It's the coolest technology I've ever experienced, and despite being a computer nerd, I've never been a gamer, and I've mocked the existence of VR for as long as it's been a thing. So when I say it's cool, I'm not making it up.
By the time I got through those 30 minutes beating up the virtual heavy bag, I was sweating buckets. And it worked: I was still angry (I mean, how could I not be? my life is a cesspool), but it tempered that raw, homicidal fury, and in fact made it disappear for a little while. So I did it again last night, with the same result. (There's also a tai chi app, and I bought that too, though I haven't tried it yet.)
It seems that getting out that rage was the key to unlocking everything: I slept last night, and I slept hard: I shut off my phone a few minutes after 9:00 PM last night, and while I woke up twice for no reason I can think of, I went back to sleep immediately both times. Woke up to my alarm at 6:00 AM, because I need to clean out the refrigerator for the groceries that'll be delivered later this morning, because I actually planned out meals for the week. And I need to eat, because I'm ravenous now that I'm actually being seriously physical - no walk, however, speedy, is going to be as taxing as beating up a heavy bag that doesn't even exist (I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's true).
Y'all, I feel rested for the first time in over five months. Don't get me wrong - I'm still exhausted, because I've got an enormous sleep deficit to overcome - but I feel so much better physically than I have on any day since Doug died. I could cry from relief.
And I didn't go crazy with the meal planning: breakfasts will be overnight oats or a Dave's Killer Bagel with almond butter and a banana; lunches will be a salad with some goat cheese and pistachios, and I only planned three dinners to last me the week (leftovers, doncha know). And I'm not doing anything fancy, because I know my (new) self well enough to know that plans don't mean a lot these days. But tonight, I'm making miso maple-glazed salmon with roasted new potatoes and brussels sprouts for dinner, and I'm actually looking forward to it.
Does this mean I've turned some kind of existential corner? Let's not get too excited about that possibility; grief isn't linear, and it's not as though I'm now happy and well-adjusted. I'm not happy, I'm definitely not well-adjusted, and my life is no better than it's been since we went into lockdown. I miss my husband. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I want a hug - a REAL hug - SO MUCH that I could (and do) cry. But if I can channel my anger in a way that gets it out without hurting anyone, and if that leads to me eating better and sleeping better, that has to make a difference; it already has.
If not for Covid, I know that there would have been people rallying around me physically just as they have virtually: they would've been here, literally dragging me off the couch to go out to dinner, or karaoke, or hiking, or fishing, or helping me clean the house. I haven't had that - not because no one wanted to do it, but because they couldn't. And I'm not gonna lie: I'm proud of myself that I've stuck with therapy and grief counseling and trying things, even though I didn't believe they'd help (and I still don't believe that anything I'm doing is going to help me have any will to live). And I'm happy that I found a way to express my anger that's not damaging to me, or my pets, or my property.
Today, at least, I feel rested(ish) and I actually want to eat real food.
Today, that's enough.
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