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.
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