The four-letter word that rules my not-a-life

If you're the squeamish type who can't stomach expletives, you'll want to move on along, because they're going to be used abundantly in this post. Yes, I'm talking to you, Coward, you fucking piece of shit - there will be no grieving "with some class" here today. But I FUCKING PROMISE you, there's going to be a post dedicated JUST to you and the absolute DEVASTATION you've wreaked on my already precarious emotional health in the not-too-distant future, so stay tuned for that one. Unless, of course, you want to grow a pair and come clean so that I can cut you out and stop feeling like I can't trust ANYBODY. I'm betting that you won't have the character to show yourself and take your well-deserved lumps, though: people like you never do. Just to be clear: you SUCK, and if I still speak to you at all, it's only because I don't know who you are. But know that you've managed to replace my bio dad as my most-despised person on the planet, and THAT'S no small feat.

When we think of four-letter words, we typically think of the biggies (thanks, George Carlin!): Fuck. Cunt. Cock. Twat. Then there are the expletives that are not four-letter words, but which colloquially we refer to as four-letter words because they're so profane: motherfucker, cocksucker, son of a bitch, twatwaffle...

None of those words is my problem. Hell, I embrace them. No, today's post is brought to you by the worst fucking four-letter word there is; the four-letter word that governs my every move (or non-move, as the case may be).

Today's post is brought to you by the word "can't".

There are universal, immutable, eternal  truths:

• I can't see Doug, ever again.
• I can't hear Doug call my name, ever again.
• I can't be Doug's wife, ever again.
• I can't hold Doug, ever again.
• I can't make love to Doug, ever again.

These truths are unbearable, even in the absence of all the other things I can't do. You might say that there's empirical evidence that I can, in fact, bear these truths, because I'm still here. You'd be wrong: hanging on to this excuse for a life by the skin of my teeth and against my will is NOT bearing the truths so much as it is surviving despite them.

Then, there are the truths that are, theoretically, temporary. These are the truths that exist only because of Covid, and only in the Land of the Covidiots who refuse to mask and maintain appropriate distance, thereby forcing me to remain isolated in my house 24/7. The challenge that's hitting me in the face is that there is no way to know if "temporary" means another month, or another six months, or another year, or another two years, or another five years. But one thing is certain: as long as Covid is still in play, I'm effectively paralyzed: There are things that I could do, even WANT to do, because they'd make me feel connected to Doug, or they'd bring me some comfort, or because they just plain need to be done. But those things can neither connect me to Doug nor comfort me - either because they aren't available at all due to Covid or are too risky to engage in due to Covid:

• Go to a football game: can't do that (I'm certain there will be no college football this Fall)
• Watch sports on TV: can't do that
• Get a tattoo in Doug's memory: can't do that
• Travel overseas: can't do that
• Travel here in the States: can't do that unless it's to a remote cabin where I can get groceries and booze delivered (I'm not drinking much these days, but I'd hate to take it off the table as a possibility while sitting in a hot tub). And I'm not sure that really counts as 'travel', anyway.
• Theatre: can't do that (I can participate in Facebook Live script reads, but the meaty, heady experience of digging into a character and making her my own over weeks of rehearsal? nope)
• Go out for karaoke with friends: can't do that
• Kayaking: can't do that because I'm not experienced enough to go out alone, and because I can't buy a kayak to go out with friends since A) I can't go into a store (too people-y) and B) I have no way to transport a kayak.
  
  Also can't go rent one with friends because the only time that's an option is on weekends, and the rentals aren't available early in the morning or in the early evening (which, frankly, are the only times I should be out on the lake; I've already got a tiny black spot on my left forearm that might be melanoma, so spending MORE time in the hottest sun of the day doesn't seem like a good option)
• Learn how to ride a motorcycle, get my license, and buy a bike: can't do that
• Any of the many, many repairs that need to be done on the house: can't do any of that because I'm not handy, and having professionals in my house here in the Land of the Covidiots who refuse to mask or maintain appropriate distance isn't a good idea
• I can't even enjoy cooking anymore: my friend Dustin did a porch drop of some beautiful chanterelle mushrooms the other night; I sauteed them last night just to get them cooked before they started to go bad, and I tonight I made a chanterelle risotto. It's the first time I've ever cooked with chanterelles, and experimenting with new foods was one of my favorite things to do; Doug was a great taste tester. This was the first time I've cooked something new since he died. I finished making it, and... couldn't eat it. My appetite vanished. I started crying - loud, ugly crying. The risotto is now in the fridge, and I hope I can stomach eating it tomorrow so it doesn't go to waste.

Granted, I could do a social-distancing hangout with friends, except that it's too fucking hot to be outside 99% of the time, and I NEED HUMAN CONTACT, not just seeing people in close-ish proximity. 

You may think I'm feeling sorry for myself. You'd be right. You may think that I should just get my friends together in the driveway to hang out, even if I can't hug them, because that would be "better than nothing." To that, I say this: can YOU remember the last time you touched another human being? If the answer is yes, then I suggest you fuck all the way off, because I can fucking GUARANTEE YOU that a social-distancing visit is NOT "better than nothing;" a social-distancing visit is not going to do me any more good than a fucking Zoom call.

So, what CAN I do? The same goddamn motherfucking shit I've been doing EVERY GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING DAY FOR THE LAST FOUR GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING MONTHS: I can watch Netflix. I can read. I can spend far too many hours on Reddit and Facebook and Twitter. I can text and talk to friends and family. I can paint (very, very badly). I can play the flute (also very, very badly since I'm so out of practice). NONE of those things brings me comfort. NONE of them makes me feel connected to Doug. Essentially, all I've been doing since mid-March is rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic that is my not-a-life.

Pretty soon, I'm going to have to choose between risking getting Covid and possibly dying a horrible, excruciating death in my house alone... or giving in to the mental breakdown that's been threatening since February 20 (hey, would THAT make you happy, Coward?). And the latter would end up with me probably hospitalized and losing my job, house, and pets.

Quite the conundrum, it is.