Stop being sad! No, NOT LIKE THAT!

It's Saturday, and I have nothing I have to do, so of course I woke up at 5:30 this morning. Sigh... Old Kathleen would have had no problem with this: I'd wake up, have my coffee - enjoying the peace and quiet and solitude of the early morning - and then at about 8:00, I'd make a cup of coffee for Doug and wake him by giving him a kiss and telling him that his coffee is on the bedside table.

But there's no enjoying peace and quiet and solitude when they're my constant state rather than a treat. The quiet and the solitude don't feel peaceful now: they feel oppressive; I'm drowning in quiet and solitude. 

I haven't been writing much because I don't really have anything to say - not anything that I haven't already said over and over and over, at least. I told a friend the other day that I never in a million years would have thought I'd have occasion to quote Britney Spears, and yet here we are: my loneliness is killing me. 

I bought a new (to me) car this week. Old Kathleen would not have done that: my Mustang is only nine years old, and it's in perfectly good condition. If Doug and I were planning a long road trip, we would have just rented an SUV. But when there's just you, renting a car becomes a logistical pain in the ass, and since the only traveling I'll be able to do in the foreseeable future is gonna be via road trip (I'm not flying as long as Covid-19 is still hanging around), it made sense to buy an SUV. Ordinarily, this would be exciting, but... not so much. It's really more of a "well, we talked about both of us getting new cars this year, and I'll need something bigger than the Mustang for my trip to the mountains, so might as well." 

Today I plan to clean the kitchen - key word here being "plan," because I plan to do lots of things that never happen. 

Did a look through twitter this morning, and discovered a semi-viral thread started by a young widower whose wife died two-and-a-half years ago; he's now engaged (to a woman he met a year ago), and his fiancee was making cupcakes last night with his three-year-old daughter - to celebrate his late wife's birthday today. And many of the replies are... nothing short of horrifying. A few examples:

• "I keep thinking the new fiancee is celebrating the fact that the other wife died and now she has a ready made family."
• "I couldn't ever remarry after losing my wife. For one marriage is a lot of work it's not a game it's not something you play around with it's a serious commitment to one person..."
• "This dude was cheating on his wife with the now fiancee."
• "i hope my partner doesn’t get married only 2 years after i d*e omg"
• "Bit quick"
• "Honestly if you TRULY love someone that someone being your other half/half your soul and they pass away there's no possible way that you'd even be able to move on that quickly if ever again. I could never because I'm truly in love and if something happened to him I'm done."
• "Not in a bad way just feel like you rushed to quickly but what can we say it's your choice end of the day"
• "Only thing I took away from this is that within two and a half years, you already got over your wife’s death and got engaged to someone else."

Again: this man's wife died MORE THAN TWO YEARS AGO, and people are suggesting he either didn't really love her in the first place, or he's moved on too quickly.

Is this my future? People are unhappy with me now because I'm all misery all the time; if I should get lucky enough to find love again before I'm a senior citizen, they're gonna judge me for that, too? Because... why exactly? What's the acceptable amount of time for a widow/er to suffer before s/he's ALLOWED to be happy again? Please let me know.

Newflash: if you've never lost your life partner, you have ZERO to say about how any of us grieves. PERIOD. If you don't like the way I grieve, tough shit; when it's your turn, you can do it "right." And if I were to somehow miraculously meet someone and start dating NEXT WEEK, that STILL wouldn't change the fact that I loved Doug with everything I had, I still love and miss Doug, and I will ALWAYS love and miss Doug. Yes, even if I find someone else to love.

If someone were engaged to someone new almost three years after their divorce, nobody would think twice about it. But this fella's engaged almost three years after his wife died and suddenly he's a man whore? FUCK that. 

Widow/ers are judged no matter what we do. Too sad for too long? You need to take meds/you should be grateful for what you had instead of sad about what you lost. Angry? You need to get that bitterness under control. Life has no meaning? You need to meditate/exercise/learn to love life on your own (never mind that some of us already DID that and would prefer not to do it again). Feeling lost and tired of grief brain? Manifest the life you want! Find a new partner? You didn't wait long enough/your new partner is too similar to/too different from your dead partner. 

That whole twitter thread really hit me hard. It's a reminder that I'm being judged constantly by people who have absolutely NO CLUE what my daily life is like, and it's likely never to stop. 

Please do weigh in on how long you want me to continue crying every day and suffering before you'll consider it acceptable for me to start looking for a new partner. I certainly wouldn't want to upset any of you who are sleeping happily next to your spouses every night.

Half a year

I drank my coffee this morning from a mug that Doug bought the week we went to the family beach house in Sunset Beach, NC. That was the week he proposed.

We were supposed to be at that house again right now - from August 15 to August 29. We planned the trip to have something for Doug to look forward to after recovering from surgery. We were going to revisit the places we went to that week, and revisit the spot on the beach where Doug asked me to be his wife.

That's not happening, of course, because he's dead, and I'm still (technically) alive. Instead, I'm on my couch, alone. Where I've been for the overwhelming majority of the past 182 days. Six months. Exactly half a year. Every day takes me further from the life I had with Doug - from any life, really.

The day after Doug died, I wrote this:

Y'all, I'm gonna get REALLY real here: I don't want to be here without Doug. I am pretty much willing myself to stay alive one minute at a time, because that's what I'm supposed to do. But I would be perfectly content for the earth to swallow me up right this second, every second that I'm awake (which is currently at 37 hours straight and counting).

People keep telling me that I am strong; I am NOT. What I AM is really good at doing what needs to be done and APPEARING strong. I am utterly and completely broken. I am quite convinced that I can NEVER be put back together. And really, I don't WANT to be put back together.

Six months later, I still feel very much the same, except that I haven't been awake for the past 37 hours. 

Why, though? Why am I still so stuck? I know other widows (know is a strong word - I'm talking about women in my Facebook grief groups) who are about as far out as I am, who are doing renovations to their houses, taking trips, seeing family and friends, making at least a little progress in living again... and I'm still on the same damn spot on the sofa, still crying every single day because I miss Doug SO MUCH. Hell, there's one (young) woman I know of whose husband died AFTER Doug, and she's already in a new relationship! Mind you, I'm not judging her for that - if anything, I'm a little jealous, even though I know it's way too early for me to even think about it. (Of course, that upsets me too, because, y'know, not getting any younger and running out of time if I want to have another relationship, which is really the only thing that would make my remaining time on this rock bearable.)

But who am I kidding? I'm great at being in a relationship, but I SUCK at dating. So the odds are not ever going to be in my favor there.

The grief group got together again last night (on Zoom, of course), and one of the women commented that I seem to be smiling and laughing more lately. She's not wrong, but what she doesn't know is that I seem to be (unintentionally) putting on a happy face in those calls because I'm hosting them (I lead meetings at work a lot, and while you can take the girl out of the professional meeting facilitation setting, apparently you can't take the meeting facilitator out of the girl).

I don't feel much like smiling or laughing today.

I had big plans for today and tomorrow (I took both days off, because I knew that work-level functioning wasn't likely): I was going to get up at the crack of dawn and clean the house. I was going to cook Doug's favorite dinner (meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, peas) to have tonight, and drink a shot or two of his favorite Jack Daniels Honey after dinner. I was going to paint (very bad, "she's not an artist but passing the time is passing the time" painting, not like painting a room in the house). I was going to distract, distract, distract myself.

Instead, the tears hit like a freight train the minute I opened my eyes. And they haven't really stopped. Cleaning the house isn't gonna happen. Dinner isn't gonna happen. Painting sure isn't gonna happen.

Two people have already texted me today, hellbent on convincing me that happiness awaits me. I wish I knew what has them so convinced that's the case. I wish I shared their optimism. Hell, I wish I had even the tiniest sliver of hope that they could be right. But I don't, because they're not.

I think I'm just gonna go back to bed and call it a day. Too bad tomorrow's just going to be more of the same. As will the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that; lather, rinse, repeat until my heart finally stops - and my suffering along with it.

Ten months and poetry(ish)

Ten months ago today, I married the love of my life. In three days, he'll be dead six months. I still cannot reconcile those numbers, even though I know they're correct.

I wasn't planning to post anything to the blog today; I was too deeply sad even to write, really. But, this evening, I participated in a writing about grief workshop hosted by Alive - I really wasn't feeling it, but I'd already signed up, and I didn't want to no-show.

The two facilitators walked us through three writing exercises, the last of which was to express an emotion without stating the emotion - in metaphor, or via physical description. And then they talked about using different writing forms, and how sometimes those constraints (writing in metaphor, or a writing, say, a sonnet) can make writing even more powerful.

So I wrote a haiku. I don't think it'll win me any awards, but for someone who's NEVER been able to write good haiku, I'll take it; I've seen (and written) worse. (For the record, I can indeed write TF out of a sonnet, though, but that's a post for another day.)

No more reds or blues
Everything is shades of gray
Color left me, too

What a difference a day makes

Five years ago today, I went out for the evening with some friends to see a production of Inebriated Shakespeare. There, I met a cute, funny guy who turned out to be the handsomest, funniest man in the world, and who ended up changing my life for the infinitely better until his death changed my life for the infinitely worse.

Neither of us realized that that evening would change our lives; it's not as though it was a love-at-first-sight moment for either Doug or me. There was no swell of music as the crowd disappeared when our eyes met across the room. We were introduced by a mutual friend. I thought he was cute AF and a really talented comedic actor (little did I know, he was far more talented than I realized, and equally adept at comedy and drama). He, as it turns out, thought that I was cute AF but too young for him. At any rate, nothing about that evening screamed "you've just met the love of your life." We chatted for a bit, and then went our separate ways.

The restaurant that hosted that performance has been out of business for several years, so there's not even any going back there to have a beer in Doug's honor and wax nostalgic. That made us both sad, as we often wanted to do just that - revisit the place where we met. Now, I have to be sad about that all alone.

I returned home that night, thinking he seemed pretty nice, and hoping we'd run into each other again sometime. Obviously, we did indeed run into each other again, but that's a story for another day.

Four years ago today, I was preparing to live alone for the first time in 18 years, as my son was packing to go off to college. Doug, by then a fixture in my life, listened to me talk about my life as a mom, and my worries for Andrew taking his first steps into the world alone. Doug held me when I cried, and gave me pep talks when I feared that I hadn't taught Andrew everything he needed to know. Now, I have to get my pep talks from other people. And those pep talks are never as good as Doug's were, because nobody knows me or loves me like he did. And I don't have anybody to hold me when I cry now. I cry alone, as I do everything else.

Two days from now will mark 10 months since Doug and I got married. Five days from now will mark six months since he died.

I don't know how I'm still alive. Plenty of people die of broken hearts; why not me? Why do I have to keep struggling and suffering and being so fucking lonely?

I know that, from the outside, it probably looks like I'm doing so much better, and I suppose in a way that's true. I'm functional at work - most of the time, at least; not so much this past week, when I was feeling under the weather. (I used to be able to power through and be productive even when I didn't feel well, but that's not the case anymore. Now, when I feel crappy, I'm down for the count, and there's no pretending otherwise; it's a reminder that my grasp on being functional is tenuous at best.) I participate in what online theatrical endeavors come my way. I'm in a virtual book club, although that's wrapping up on Tuesday. I laugh. I can have conversations that aren't centered around my grief. To the outside observer, it would appear that I'm living as fully as I can given the confines of living during this pandemic.

But the truth is that I'm not better. Not really. I just keep myself busy (with work, and zoom calls, and book club, and script reads, and my VR games, and Netflix, and reading) so that I can avoid thinking about how very empty and lonely my life is. Because as soon as I start thinking about it, the tears come and don't stop for hours. The truth is that my life has no color; it has no depth. It has activities designed to pass the time. It has virtual socializing that I enjoy - of course I do - with people I love, but who all have their own lives. But it's a virtual life now, not a real one. And I don't see how that's ever going to be any different.

I miss my husband. I miss him when I wake up in the morning and drink my coffee alone. I miss him when I lie down to go to sleep at night without his arms wrapped around me. I miss him every minute in between. I miss his laugh. I miss his voice. I miss his dimples. I miss his smell. I miss our Saturday evening ritual of Doug pouring me a beer and a shot of Jack Daniels Honey as I cook dinner. I miss our inside jokes. I miss our sex life; celibacy is really not my cup of tea.

And I miss me. I've never been an optimist, but the closest I ever came to being one was with Doug. We had everything together, and we were still at the beginning of a great adventure, writing our love story in real time. Anything was possible, because we had each other. Every piece of joy was exponentially more joyful because we could share it with each other; every piece of pain was more manageable because neither of us had to bear it alone. For the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid for the future, because I knew my future: it was us, and it was going to keep getting better every day. I was someone I genuinely liked when I was with Doug; I became someone I genuinely liked because of Doug. I'm not that person anymore; I've become someone I hate, and someone he definitely wouldn't have wanted. I'm no longer a woman Doug would have fallen in love with - I'm now a woman he would have run away from.

These days, the pieces of joy that find their way to me are still joyful, but they're made far less joyful by the ever-present knowledge that there's no one to share them with. Every piece of pain is magnified, because it's mine alone to bear and deal with and fix. And even though I have people I can talk to about "the good and the bad and the happy and the sad" (a quote from Doug's wedding vows to me), that doesn't make me feel less alone, because no one understands me in the way he did, and no one else can really share the joys or the sorrows in the same way, because no one's life is inextricably bound to mine. I am untethered, floating on the waves of existence all alone.

I hate living alone now. I long for that easy intimacy of sharing my life with someone who loves me as much as I love him. And I'm afraid for the future pretty much all the time, mostly because it seems that my future is going to continue to look like today looks: alone, with no one to share the joys or the sorrows. I'm just a sad, lonely old widow. And yeah, I still hate that word as much as ever.

My house is absolutely disgusting. I can't be bothered to clean at all, beyond things that can't be ignored like dishes and laundry. My living space reflects who I am now: disheveled, cluttered, probably smells awful. I've never been the world's best housekeeper, but now? I'd give Oscar Madison a run for his money, because I just can't bring myself to care. And even when the occasional moments hit when I do care, I can't muster up enough energy to do anything about it.

It's been nearly six months, and I'm just as paralyzed as I was back in February. And the constant sucker punches of pandemic and politics and social unrest... honestly, I feel as though I'm being punished, but I have no clue what it is I've done to deserve it. 

I miss Doug. I miss me. I miss having a life. I miss happiness. And I'm just so tired of it all.

Things that aren't as small as you'd think

It's been an extraordinarily lonely day today.

I kept busy-ish yesterday - got a few things done around the house, had a bourbon-and-cigar Zoom date with my friend Mike, talked to my sister, talked to my niece, talked to my son, slept... okay. I kept busy-ish today too - got a few more things done around the house, started prepping for Thursday's Facebook Live reading of The First Wives Club. 

What's different today? Honestly, I don't know. But the loneliness of missing Doug has been oppressively hanging over me all day like a storm cloud, black and heavy with rain that hasn't yet fallen. A fellow widow told me yesterday that I should "accept that the thing you need to be happy is probably never going to happen," and should instead "focus on what would make you happier than you are right now."

But here's the thing: I can't, because I'm unable to do all the things that could make me happier right now, thanks to the pandemic. If I could wave a magic wand and Covid disappeared tomorrow, I'd be going out with friends, doing shows, going to shows, taking day trips, going camping, going out to karaoke, trying new restaurants, going to escape rooms... There's a lot I could do to be happier. If Covid disappeared.

Even if that magical scenario happened - which, let's face it, it won't; not any time soon, at least - the best I could do is find a way to shift my perspective to "my life is terrific and it's missing only one thing." But that one thing is NOT a small thing; that one thing is someone to share it with; someone to build a life with; someone to build a history with; someone to know inside and out, who wants to know me inside and out; someone to be my closest possible family. Sure, I got to do that with Doug, but for far too short a time. Maybe I'm crazy, but I want another shot at that. Believing it's even remotely possible is an entirely different problem (because I don't believe it is), but it's what I want. I can absolutely appreciate all the good that's in my life and still be unhappy about what's missing; I'm pretty sure that's allowed.

And honestly, people who suggest that I can be just as happy alone are speaking from their own perspective rather than mine. I THOUGHT I was happy alone, and I KNOW I was happy with Doug, and I can promise you: Being I-thought-I-was-happy alone wasn't even close to the soul-deep happiness I had when I had Doug to love and to love me back.

Of course I still had problems, and of course there were times when I was upset, or angry, or scared... but even in those moments, my life in the big picture was happy, because I wasn't just me. I didn't have to deal with all of life's little and big mishaps alone. I was part of a team, and we tackled life together. I could talk to Doug when I was upset or angry; he'd hold me when I was scared. Now, I have only myself, or whichever person gets stuck talking to me on that particular day. And I'm grateful for those people, even as I recognize that it's not the same as having MY person.

Today, I struggled to open a pickle jar. I've got one of those silicone gripper things for just that purpose, so of course I got it open using that, and immediately started crying, because of course I did: opening jars was Doug's job, and there would always be good-natured ribbing about what I'd do without him to open jars. Such a tiny little thing, joking about something so silly, but that's what a marriage is: millions of tiny little things that weave together to form a life.

I can and do make fun of myself, but not with the love and goodwill my husband did. 

I can have fun alone; I can have fun with family and friends in zoom calls; maybe someday I'll be able to have fun with family and friends in person again. I can open my own jars, and take out the trash, and feed the cats, and take care of all the requirements of daily living. But no matter what else I have, no matter how otherwise wonderful my life may be, I'll be missing just one thing.

And it's not a small thing at all.

More grief math

What are you supposed to do when you know EXACTLY what it would take for you to be happy, and you know you're NEVER going to have that and therefore will NEVER be happy?

It's not a rhetorical question.

Megan Devine wrote an interesting thread on Twitter today, about how we view loneliness, and how we talk to people expressing their loneliness, especially now in the middle of a pandemic. It's a good read, so take a gander.

Had my Thursday session with Brooke today, and I'm beginning to wonder why I'm bothering to do that, too. It's not that I don't like talking to her, or that I feel she's unhelpful exactly; it's more that there really isn't any help for me. Look, I'm all about fixing problems, and the first step to fixing a problem is defining it. My problem is that I have ALL this love to give, and no one to give it TO. Yes, of course, I give love to my family and my friends, but you know what I'm talking about and it's not the same kind of love. I have ALL this love to share with a PARTNER. It physically hurts, not having anyone to cook for, and hug, and spend my evenings and my nights with. 

I don't want the life I'm stuck with, and I can't have the life I want. No therapist can fix that. No grief counselor can fix that. NO ONE can fix that.

Sure, theoretically, I could fall in love again. Statistically speaking, though, the odds aren't with me. Women over the age of 50 are far less likely to marry than men over 50. And considering my track record, my long-lost good looks, and my oh-so-shitty attitude, I'd say my odds are considerably lower than the statistical mean. 

But even if I were to believe that I could make magic with another man, I can't. Because dating isn't safe now, and who knows how long it will be before it IS safe? I'M RUNNING OUT OF TIME. I don't want to sit in my house for another year or two - at which point I'll be 57, and every day that passes puts me further in the "more likely to be kidnapped by terrorists than get married" category. So, I can start dating again at 57, assuming I can even find any prospects. 

And then what? What are the odds of finding someone I'm able and willing to commit to, who's able and willing to commit to me? How long will I have to date before THAT happens? Another three, four years of kissing frogs and being ghosted and being played? And even if I manage to find this mythical man, how long will I have to date him before we're willing to move in together, let alone get married? Another year? Two? Now I'm 63 years old. That'll be NINE LONG YEARS of living without the one and only thing I want. And by then, I may not even HAVE a libido anymore, and I'm sorry: I want a MARRIAGE, with ALL that entails - including a healthy sex life.

I want what I want, and the math makes it clear that I am very unlikely to have it at all, and ABSOLUTELY can't have it any time soon. Living without it for another six to nine years is simply not worth the trouble. 

So, I ask again: What are you supposed to do when you know EXACTLY what it would take for you to be happy, and you know you're NEVER going to have that and therefore will NEVER be happy?

Therapists vs Grief Counselors - a PSA

On my Google Newsfeed this morning, this gem appeared. You can go read it if you like, but fear not: I'm gonna hit the high points for you.

Y'all, grief counseling is a unique skill, and even the best therapists (for mental health issues) may not be effective at helping those of us in grief. Case in point: the woman who wrote that piece, because OH MY GOD.

Let's start with what she got right:

• There is no incorrect way to respond to loss. Don't judge yourself.
• Grief is a healthy and necessary process.
• Allowing your feelings to wash over you and sitting with them for a while in this accepting and nonjudgmental manner is a profound healing method.

That's all good stuff. But now, let's look at what she got wrong, because what she got wrong, she got REALLY wrong (her words in black text; my thoughts in red):

• You build resiliency by honoring and replacing what you’ve lost. Sure, honoring and repl-- wait, WHAT? I'll build resiliency by honoring and REPLACING what I've LOST? My husband was irreplaceable; so was my Mom; so was my brother; so were the other family members and friends I've lost over the years. 
• Replacing your loss doesn’t mean forgetting the person who has died; it means finding a new person or persons to fill the role of friend, lover, or mentor. Oh, thanks SO MUCH for clearing that up. Let me run RIGHT out and find a new husband; THAT'LL fix everything. 🙄 Seriously, did she run this by ANYONE who's actually knowledgeable about the grieving process?
• Getting out of yourself and focusing on someone else’s needs instead of your own is a time-tested way to heal—volunteer to tutor students online or adopt a dog or cat that needs care and a loving home. Oh, honey... nobody in the throes of heavy grief is in a position to help ANYBODY. WE CAN BARELY TAKE CARE OF OURSELVES.
• Through loss, you learn to value life. Oh, HELL NO; she did NOT just say that. Somebody hold my earrings, because OH MY GOD. 🤦‍♀️ Lady, it may make you feel better to think that losing a loved one holds some cosmic lesson, but that doesn't make it so. PLENTY of us already valued life. PLENTY of us already took not a moment for granted. PLENTY of us DIDN'T NEED A FUCKING LESSON. You can fuck ALL the way off with this bullshit.
• It’s often the fire of this type of experience that burns away what is false and not serving you, and in rising from the ashes, you can become your most authentic, best self. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW? Many of us were already our authentic selves; many of us were already our best selves precisely BECAUSE of the person who died. HOLY SHIT, this woman may be a phenomenal marriage and family counselor, but she should never, NEVER, NEVER write on grief again without getting some serious education on the subject first. 

If y'all are wondering why I'm so angry about this, it's because these messages are false, and harmful, and can make a grieving person (who hasn't learned about the subject from someone who GENUINELY understands it) feel even worse because they CANNOT just "replace" what was lost, or because they don't feel that the experience has somehow enriched their life. 

If you need professional assistance with grief, I beg you: find a grief counselor. Don't assume that any PhD or PsyD or MSW who hangs out a shingle can help you just because they're a credentialed therapist or mental health counselor. I see both a therapist and a grief counselor, because each has a very different skill set; sure, there's some overlap, but this is NOT one of those Venn diagrams that's a circle.

And now I'm gonna go turn on my Oculus and beat up the virtual heavy bag for a while, because I need it after reading that steaming pile of bullshit.

Lost Day, the sequel

I've already written, at great length, about the Lost Day that was Saturday. so I'm not going to make you suffer through that again.

But it turns out the whole damn weekend was Lost Days. I woke up at 7:00 yesterday morning, to a crisp, cool morning. An early Fall kind of morning. A stay-in-bed-and-snuggle kind of morning. Except that I couldn't stay in bed and snuggle, because my snuggle partner is dead. So I dragged my ass out of bed, took Kellogg out, fed the animals, and then proceeded to space out and doze intermittently until 4:30, at which point I got up, ate, took a shower, walked the dog again and fed the animals, and got ready for the script read.

That script read was the only social or recreational or remotely productive thing I did the entire weekend.  Full disclosure: I did NOT want to do it. I mean, I wanted to do it when I agreed to do it, and I wanted to do it when we rehearsed last weekend. Last night, though? I just wanted to stay curled up in my bed until work this morning. But I was not about to put a bunch of other people in a lurch, so I put my my big-girl panties and made myself do it. And I'm glad, because it was a lovely experience; I'm privileged to get to perform with some incredibly talented people. 

I have many more thoughts on the weekend, but none of them is good. All I can say is that my go-to when asked how I am is, "still alive; still mad about it." 

On the bright side, my work day was good, so I'm definitely getting back some of my mojo there. Not as much as I'd like, and not as fast as I'd like, but at least I'm starting to feel as though I'm earning my salary. 

But despite doing literally nothing all weekend (seriously, it's as though I was catatonic for two solid days), I'm absolutely exhausted. So tonight's going to be an early "dinner" (YES, I'm going to have a peanut butter and grape jam sandwich, with potato chips and a Coke, because it's what I'm in the mood for), and an early bedtime. With any luck, I'll get up early enough to work out tomorrow. WHY I'm going to bother to try and do that, I don't know. But I'm gonna keep going through the motions, because apparently that's just what I'm supposed to do. 🤷‍♀️

Kathleen plans and the gods laugh

Right now, I am SUPPOSED to be on a zoom call with my friend Suzi. I'm supposed to be drinking some high-end Bourbon (which better be good, given what it cost) and eating some yummy takeout (well, delivery). I'm supposed to be wearing a fancy dress, with full hair and makeup. I'm supposed to be laughing and having a good time.

But I'm not doing any of those things, because grief makes the decisions now, and grief decided that today would be a Lost Day. What's a Lost Day? I'm so glad you asked. A Lost Day is a day in which I'm not even a shadow of my former self; it's a day in which I have, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist. It's a day with no accomplishments, no distractions, and no relief.

It went wrong pretty much as soon as I got up this morning: I pulled out my Oculus, and decided I'd try out my space exploration app while drinking my coffee. The good news about the Oculus is that I do not get motion sickness when I use it for gaming. The bad news about the Oculus is that I DO get motion sickness when I use it for anything where I'm staying still, but my avatar is flying around. I was less than three minutes into my tour of the Solar System, and had to turn it off and sit still for 20 minutes, with my eyes closed, breathing deeply just to get the nausea under control.

Once I felt better, I decided to do the Tai Chi app, but the nausea came right back - I don't think the app is the problem; I just think the VR ship has sailed for today.

That set the tone for the day: I tried to read the next two chapters of Just Mercy for my book club, but couldn't focus. Tried to watch a documentary on Netflix; couldn't focus on that, either. Tried to slog through a bit of the Java class I'm taking, but I really should have known better. Even taking a nap proved impossible. Yesterday I was legit excited about and looking forward to playing dress-up (I'm finally, at the age of 55, getting close to managing a passable winged eyeliner), eating some delicious food, and spending time with my friend. Today, I look in the mirror and think, "Why would you even bother, you ratchet old crone? You can dress up all you want, and do flawless makeup, and you're still going to be you, and you still won't have a life, and how pathetic that this is your idea of fun now." And I can't even argue with any of that, because it's all true. Today, I can't think of a single food worth eating. Today, talking to anyone is more work than I'm capable of. It's 6:00 PM, and I cannot tell you what I've done all day, because I've done nothing. I've sat here and stared off into space and done nothing. I haven't watched anything, I haven't read anything, I haven't listened to anything, I haven't gone anywhere. I've written this post. I've fed the animals breakfast and dinner. I took the dog out when he needed it. That's it. It's a Lost Day, and this is what Lost Days look like.

I have far too many Lost Days. 

When a Lost Day happens during the work week, I have no choice but to push myself to power through it. But it shows, I'm sure: I'm less able to focus, less productive, certainly less helpful to my colleagues, more emotional, prone to take innocuous statements the wrong way, and prone to lose my temper. Those are the days when I feel like I need to go to sleep the minute I'm done working, even though I never do.

But when a Lost Day happens on the weekend? I'm effectively paralyzed. There is no powering through it, and there's no ignoring it. There's only surviving it, and I STILL wish I could come up with even ONE good reason why surviving it is supposed to be a good thing.

This is part of the reason why I don't generally make plans with people: I never know when grief is going to decide that I need to bail. And since I already feel as though everyone's tired of dealing with this new version of me (because I sure am tired of me), the last thing I want to do is a last-minute cancellation to piss people off even more. So most of the time, I just don't bother.

I miss my friends. I miss sitting down in a restaurant and ordering a meal that someone else has to prepare and someone else has to clean up. I miss going to movies. I miss karaoke. I miss seeing shows. I miss doing shows. I miss my husband. I miss myself. Maybe, someday, I won't have to miss those first six things anymore. The last two, though... I'm going to miss them forever. And I really wish forever would just wrap up already, because I'm tired of ALL of this.