Tuesday, July 28, 2020

No good day goes unpunished

I did SO WELL for most of the weekend. And as "good" as Saturday and most of Sunday were, that's how bad yesterday was.

Oh, I managed to sleep in our bed (that's twice in a row; three times if you count last night - quick, set off the celebratory fireworks 🙄), and slept for seven hours. But work was a nightmare; I was trying to teach someone how to execute a process that I came up with, and I couldn't remember ANYTHING; for two hours, instead of actually putting together documentation about the process like we were supposed to do, the poor woman watched me flail about trying to get it working (and at the end of those two hours, it still wasn't).

By the end of my workday, I was totally demoralized and drained. I did manage to make myself eat breakfast (although, not until early afternoon), and I did indeed cook my black bean and sweet potato burgers and zucchini fries for dinner. But it wasn't as tasty as I remember it being, so that was a disappointment, too.

But, y'all... I just don't know how to make anyone understand. It doesn't matter how much I adjust to this or get used to it - I am not going to be happy on my own. And what's the point of living when you know you'll never really be happy? What is the point of trying, when I know it's futile? Getting through the day isn't the same as living. And no amount of people getting excited over meaningless little accomplishments is going to convince me otherwise. 

And please, I know: every widow goes through this, and most of them end up just fine. Well, for one thing, I would question that "most," because the truth is that most widows are probably lying through their teeth because they know that nobody wants to hear the truth. But even if it's true, that means that some are not just fine - and even if they were, WHO WANTS A JUST FINE LIFE? I've already done the single thing, and I've done it for most of my life; I cannot be happy doing it again. What sane person wants a life that they know will never be happy?

That was my evening last night: trying to understand why I'm even bothering. What difference does it make if I eat? Or if I sleep? If happiness is out of reach, why not eat all the chocolate and all the red meat and all the ice cream and all the potato chips? Why not just become physically one with my couch? Why not drink until I pass out every night? Why bother to take a shower, or polish my nails, or even just brush my hair?

I have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer to any of those questions.





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