Opening Day

To quote GOB Bluth, "I've made a huge tiny mistake." A tactical error, if you will.

Yesterday was the UT Vols opening game, against South Carolina. Several friends and family members joined me to watch the game together on Zoom. UT won, which was fabulous (although, NOT your best effort, Pruitt, so get it together). And, not gonna lie, there was a lot of booze involved (two shots of Jack Daniels Honey and four beers - that's a lot of booze for anyone, but especially so for a woman whose tolerance has been shot to hell).

It was fabulous, watching the game with company, virtual though that company was. For a few hours, I largely ignored the reality of my life and escaped into football and camaraderie. But, eventually, the game ended - as they all do. I walked the dog, watched the news, and went to bed. 

And woke up this morning, only to have reality (and a hangover) slap me HARD in the face. Doug's gone. He's still gone, he's always going to be gone, and no matter what I do to distract myself, that reality is always going to bounce right back in my face. 

The tactical error I made was virtually socializing and getting drunk. Because they were fun AF in the moment, but I have to think that I'd be feeling much better today if I'd watched the game alone and let the emotions hit me in real time instead of distracting myself. I have things I need to do today, and I cannot get my ass off the couch to do any of them. Hell, I haven't even showered yet, and I'm supposed to be reading stage directions for a Tennessee Playwrights Studio workshop in a few hours. Haven't finished cleaning the living room (today's primary household chore). Haven't cleaned the master bathroom (today's secondary household chore). Haven't started the next chapter of the book for book club. Haven't scanned my paperwork to send to the CPA to get Doug's and my taxes filed (I filed extensions back in April). Haven't finished my grocery list or packing list for the trip. Haven't done the daily tuning and playing of the autoharp. I've walked the dog and fed him and the cats, and that's it. And it's not looking as though any of it will get done, with the possible exception of the shower so I don't frighten my theatre peeps in the zoom call this afternoon.

So, really, what the fuck am I supposed to do? Do I just let myself be miserable all the time, and stay at that baseline? Or distract myself, knowing that the anguish is going to come back worse than ever as soon as the distraction is over?

I don't have any answers. Neither does anyone else. All I know is that I'm sick to death of being told that it will get easier. That's a fucking lie. It's been 218 days, and IT'S. NOT. ANY. FUCKING. EASIER. I'd appreciate people so much more if they'd stop fucking gaslighting me and just admit that this is how it is, and this is how it's going to be instead of trying to convince me that it's going to get easier. Unless you can tell me what the fuck EASIER means, and WHEN, exactly, that's going to happen, I'm going to need you to just stop. Because my experience thus far says otherwise, and all you're doing is making me think you're full of shit. 

At least, if people would honestly admit that this misery isn't going to get easier, then I could make an informed decision as to whether to stick around or check out instead of humoring everyone and hanging on, thinking that WHAT IF they're right and MAYBE someday I won't spend every idle minute wishing for a heart attack or a rogue meteor to hit my house. That's a fool's errand: live in misery because of the remote possibility that MAYBE I'll be glad I stuck around someday? At this point it's looking more like I'll still be sitting here in twenty years typing the same goddamn thing.

I hate every second of this life. It's beyond mere pain; it's torture. And I'm really sorry, but there is no way I can accept being tortured for the next who-knows-how-many years. I know people have done it - people have done it in circumstances far worse than mine. But I'm not that strong. Loving Doug, and then losing him? It broke me. I am a broken woman. And I'm growing more convinced every day that there's no repairing me, no matter how hard I try.

And now that I've effectively lost an entire weekend of time I could have used to get things done so I won't be scrambling at the last minute to finish getting ready and packing, I'm now going to have to do even more each evening after work - when I'm already exhausted from, y'know, using my broken brain all day.

I cannot tell you how hard this is. How hard everything is. I have needs that simply cannot be met: I need a hug - fuck that, I need a few thousand hugs. I need to feel loved. I need to take care of someone, and be taken care of by that someone. I need to be kissed. I need to be held. I need inside jokes, and someone to tell my deepest thoughts and fears who doesn't judge me for them. I need my husband.

I would say fuck my life, but it's clear that ship has already sailed.

Wrapping up the week

This week turned out to be reasonably productive. I've settled into a groove of three days of getting things checked off my list, then a day off. The house is already looking much better - I even rearranged the furniture in the living room. And I won't deny that it was nice to settle down and light a scented candle last night in a clean, uncluttered living room.

What's hard to articulate, though, is that while it was nice, and I enjoyed it, it didn't actually help anything. And I realize that probably doesn't make sense to anyone who hasn't been here, but... I suppose this is that new normal the experts talk about it: you start being able to enjoy things, but the sadness doesn't go anywhere. So, yeah - I can enjoy things, but I'm still absolutely miserable. Sigh...

Preparations for the trip are coming along; my compulsive list-making is serving me well. I find that I'm really looking forward to this, which makes sense: it feels like my last-ditch effort to find some sliver of hope for happiness in the future.

Overall, the week went well. But the one thing that went badly, went really badly, given the current state of public health: on Wednesday afternoon, my internet connectivity started going in and out. Rebooting the router didn't help. A call to AT&T later, I had a technician scheduled to come out the next day to replace the router and wiring. My first thought was, "Great: six months of total isolation, and I'm gonna get taken out by an asymptomatic cable guy."

Y'all, this man was in my house for nearly an hour. Yes, he wore a mask, and I wore a mask. Yes, we stayed six feet apart for the most part, but I know there were a couple of moments when we were closer than that. All the windows were open, and the fan was on High. After he left, I sprayed everything he'd touched with Lysol - and sprayed the ever-loving FUCK out of the air, too. Then I went and sat outside for half an hour. We took as many precautions as possible, but let's face it: this man is in and out of houses all day long, so I have to assume that he's been exposed, which means I now have to assume that I've been exposed.

And all of THAT means I'm on total quarantine for the next 14 days. And I was supposed to go watch the Vols season opener tomorrow at my friends Mike and Kay's house - the first socializing since March. But I'm not going to do it now; I can't risk it. If I was exposed and I'm carrying it and infect someone else, I'd never forgive myself. THANKS, Covid.

I finally got around to tuning my new Autoharp this afternoon. After several moments of confusion trying to figure out which frickin' octave I'm supposed to start tuning from (this thing has 36 strings, people), I finally got that solved. So, I tuned it... and by the time I was finished tuning the last string, the first one was out of tune again. 😐 Twice more, I tried. And then I called a friend who plays, and asked if this is normal, or if I managed to get a defective instrument. Evidently, this is normal until the strings settle. 😶😶😶 I wanna play with my new toy! (Sorry; channeled my inner Veruka Salt there for a moment.)

There's really nothing else of note to mention; it was kind of a... normal-ish week. I wish it felt like progress, but I guess I'll take it.

Seven months

I cannot express how much I HATE that we were married on the 17th of the month and Doug died on the 20th of the month; those days are forever entwined. Just three days ago marked 11 months since our wedding; today marks seven months since his death. Soon, he'll be gone twice as long as we were married; not long after that, thrice as long... our marriage was so brief that the milestones and markers are flying by at breakneck speed, with each one taking me further away from the love that made my life worthwhile - the love I now can't give to anyone; the love I now can't get from anyone.

I've tried to keep busy so far today (finished my grocery list for my trip, set up the recurring Zoom meeting for the book club), and I still have to do today's designated housework (the entryway - it's too small to be a foyer - and hallway). Then, I have some paperwork to do (yay, tax season!), and a Titans game to try and watch.

I seem to have settled into a steady state of quiet despair, punctuated by bursts of anguish so excruciating they take my breath away. I'm sure everyone else would see this as progress, but I find it to be quite the opposite, and very unsettling: hysteria, however overwhelming, is temporary, but steady-state despair may not be. It's the difference between the in-the-moment "I don't want to live anymore" and a calm, rational analysis that I'm stuck in a life that I'm pretty certain no one would want, and I'm absolutely certain that I don't want it. That feels much more permanent, and much more dangerous a path to tread.

Planning this trip truly feels like just going through the motions - which, to be fair, is how I feel most of the time anyway. And I'm afraid of what's going to happen if this trip doesn't provide some kind of breakthrough, because I'm all out of ideas beyond that (Brooke's and Grace the grief counselor's suggestion to set up an online dating profile is still on the table, but I'm still very much on the fence about that).

Sure, I could take the position that this trip is going to get me on the right track, dammit, and I won't brook any thoughts to the contrary. But for one thing, that's not me; for another, even if I were an optimist by nature, that's a foolish stance to take, because what if it's wrong? So yeah, I'm concerned. If the one thing that's my last-ditch effort to find a reason to keep going fails, then what? So I try to put that thought out of my mind every time it forces its way to the forefront. I'm not often successful, but I try.

To say that I miss Doug is such an understatement that it doesn't even scratch the surface. Imagine losing your dominant hand - it would change everything. Imagine losing your ability to communicate, because that's in large part how grief feels (because you keep trying to share your experience, but nobody really understands it). Imagine everything in your entire world being upended, and the one person you count on to get through life is gone too. It's not as simple as I miss Doug; it's more that I don't even feel real without him.

Sigh... enough ruminating. I have housework to do, and paperwork to do, and a book to start reading, and a football game to watch. I have motions to go through, and so go through them I will.

I'm gonna need a vacation to get ready for my vacation

Planning for a trip should not be this stressful. Of course, I'm usually not the only one planning, and said planning doesn't usually require one grocery store run for two weeks' worth of food and no meals at restaurants... I've always been a pseudo-planner. I plan big things - say, things that need reservations - but I like to leave some things open for spontaneity. That was Doug's preference as well: plan some stuff, and wing some stuff. That's what we did, and it worked beautifully for us.

But since Doug died, I've become a hyper-planner. I plan everything, and I make lists for everything. It's out of necessity because, if I don't make lists, I'll miss things I can't afford to miss; I can no longer count on my memory for anything. So, today, I planned my meals for the trip, and started working on my grocery list based on said meal plan. It took nearly the entire day in elapsed time, but I won't deny I took a few breaks here and there.

Meal planning for two weeks is hard, yo. And I like variety, so trying to make sure I have enough variety to keep me interested while also not buying way more than I need... there was a lot of math; thank the gods for spreadsheet software, amirite? Anyway, here's the plan:

Breakfasts will be a rotation of a couple of different varieties of overnight oats, a tofu/veggie scramble, breakfast tacos, and a sweet potato breakfast bowl.

Lunches will be a rotation of a salad (kale with tofu, dried cranberries, and a raspberry vinaigrette with chopped pistachios), chickpea veggie wraps, and rice noodle veggie bowls with ginger peanut dressing.

Dinners are a little different: I don't want to eat the same dinner four times in two weeks, so I'll cook dinner every other day and eat the leftovers on the days I don't cook. Dinner selections will be veggie stir fry, Thai mango cabbage cups with Thai peanut sauce, pulled portobello mushroom BBQ sliders with sesame slaw and roasted potatoes, butter cauliflower, portobello mushroom stew (I'm making this on our anniversary, as it was one of Doug's favorites), chickpea sweet potato curry, and Black bean enchiladas.  

And because I have a sweet tooth, I'll have a rotation of desserts: sauteed stone fruit with balsamic glaze and whipped coconut cream, mango (I'll have some left over from the cabbage cups, and mangoes are YUMMY), and for a chocolate fix, dark chocolate almond milk pudding.

Yes, I'm aware that this is a shit-ton of food, but my breakfast and lunch are generally half-size portions anyway, and remember that I'm going to be outside and walking a lot more than I am right now. So I'm not worried about getting fatter. I'm hoping that the mountain air and exercise and healthy food will burn off all the stress-induced cortisol that's keeping me from sleeping, and maybe they'll kick my metabolism back into gear.

Yes, also I'm aware that there is zero meat, or fish, or poultry, or pork, or dairy on that menu. Yes, that's intentional. No, I'm not a vegan (not that there's anything wrong with that). But these two weeks are an experiment, right? None of these foods are things I haven't made before, so I already know I like them. And while I love a good burger, or some yummy wings, or ribs, I'm willing to admit that I generally feel physically better on days when I don't eat any animal products. So why not try it out for two weeks and see if that holds true over time? 

Don't get me wrong: even if this experiment is a raging success, I'll still occasionally eat a cheeseburger, and no way will I eat pasta without cheese on it. You can have my margherita pizza when you pry it from my cold, dead hands. But if eating primarily vegan (and whole foods vegan, not lots of processed vegan substitutes) makes me feel physically good, then it kind of gives me a blueprint to follow when I'm back here.

Physically feeling good aside, meat is expensive, and not likely to keep for two weeks (whereas kale and sweet potatoes absolutely will). So it's also a matter of practicality. So, y'know, there's that.

That was my day - aside from waking up this morning to the horribly sad news about Ruth Bader Ginsburg and the political shit show that immediately followed. Full disclosure: I cried. A lot. The ONE thing I was hoping most was for RBG to make it past Election day. I know she'd been ill for a long time, and I know she had to have been in terrible pain. But selfishly, I'm terrified of what comes next.

It was an awful way to start the day, but I let myself wallow for a while and then I got to work. And I got done with the one thing I wanted to get done, so now I can relax and do whatever I feel like doing (at this moment, I have no idea what that might be, but I'm done with 'work' for the day). Tomorrow is housework, finishing up my grocery list and packing list, putting together the zoom link for the Disloyal book club, and whatever else I feel like doing (see? plan some, wing some).

Planning for my escape to the mountains

Get yourself a cocktail and settle in, because this one is LONG. However, unlike 99.99% of what I write here, it's not going to be depressing, so at least there's that.

The sleeping and eating situation has not improved; I had every intention of going to sleep shortly after work yesterday (after walking the dog and feeding him and the cats, of course), but I needed to talk to my sister and brother-and-law about something (more on that later) first. But then, before I could talk to Peggy and Dan, my son called and wanted to chat. Then, while I was on the phone with him, my bestie called, so I had to queue him up after Peggy, and... by the time I got done talking to everyone, I was wide awake again, and ended up awake until about 2:00 AM. Again. (Funny that I can go days on end without hearing from anyone, and then three people want to talk to me at the same damn time, right?)

The moral of the story: the phrase "strike while the iron is hot" applies to sleepiness as well; as long as I'm dealing with this (please, let it be temporary) insomnia, I have to let myself sleep whenever the mood strikes.

To that end, I worked until 11 this morning, then signed off for the day. During my "lunch" hour, I went through some training for my plans tomorrow, working a phone bank for getting Florida seniors to vote for Biden-Harris; thanks to Covid, I can't be as active politically as I'd like, but getting folks in a swing state to get out and vote by talking on the phone? I can do that.

Then, I opened all the windows (because the weather is perfection today), stretched out on the recliner, and immediately fell asleep - for about an hour, until Kellogg started barking at someone across the street. Because of course he did. New plan is to walk the dog and feed him and the cats in half an hour, then turn off my phone and go to sleep. Cross your fingers, y'all. Moving on...

My original plan for my trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains was not to make it a full-on vacation; I planned to work at least part of the time there. I've since decided that's a foolish idea: I've been working hard - harder than I think I even realized - and I need to use this time as a genuine break. More than a break, I need to use it for some dedicated Kathleen time.

No healing has happened in this house, and I don't think any healing can happen in this house - certainly not with the routines in which I'm stuck.

So my trip to north Georgia is going to be Kathleen's Extreme Self-Care Adventure, focusing on several areas:

Physical health

• Eating well - that means eating breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, every day. Since I'm going to do one trip to the grocery store on my way to the cabin, this is going to require careful planning to make sure I can have a variety of tasty meals with a minimum of wasting food. Fortunately, I'm not too bad at meal planning, so this is kind of like a puzzle/game: maximum variety out of minimum cooking. 
• Exercise - Yoga every morning, and hiking as much as the weather will allow. I'm aiming for three to five miles each day, but I've been pretty damn sedentary since Doug died, so I may have to modify that a bit. As for the bears, I'll have to talk to the local park Rangers to find out where bears have been active and avoid those areas. Still carrying two cans of bear spray in a holster on my hip, though.

Mental health

• Meditation first thing every morning and last thing every night.
• Writing every day, whether it ends up in the blog or not.
• Recreational reading for an hour every day.
• Continuing my sessions with Brooke and with Grace the grief counselor, as well as my weekly book club (currently reading Disloyal by Michael Cohen) and meetings with my grief group.
• Adult coloring books - I'm bringing these for bad weather days, but coloring can be very therapeutic. Early on, I couldn't handle it; too much intricacy for my damaged brain. I'm hoping that won't be the case now.
• Limited media consumption: I may put some pictures on Instagram, or post on Facebook and Twitter now and then, but I will absolutely not watch or read the news for those two weeks. And I'll probably spend minimal time scrolling through Facebook, Twitter, and Reddit. Let's face it: the news these days is almost never good, and avoiding it while I'm in the middle of nowhere seems like the smart thing to do.
• Limited communication: Other than my scheduled therapy, book club, and grief group meetings, I'm not talking to anybody. I need to focus on me during this time; phone calls or zoom meetings would be a lovely way to pass some time, but they would be counterproductive. This time is for me to focus on getting me right - or, at least, getting me to a point where I don't spend every idle minute wishing I were dead. I don't know if this trip will do that or not, but I do know that it definitely won't do that if I do the same things I do here. It's about breaking patterns. Yes, if I'm going on a long hike, I'll make sure that one person knows where I'm gonna be and when I'm expected to be back, and I'll check in accordingly. But that's what texts are for - and other than checking in before and after hikes, I probably won't do much texting, either. We're talking near-monastic solitude here, folks.

Emotional and spiritual health

• Stargazing: I'm going to be in a place with limited light pollution, and I'll be at the cabin during the Orionids meteor shower. So I've got my pretty good binoculars, and hope to see some beautiful skies.
• Relaxing in the hot tub. This needs no explanation, but I'll be in that damn tub every night that there's no lightning around.
• Music: I finally got around to setting up a Spotify account - I like to keep up with current music, and since I rarely leave the house anymore, I don't really have many opportunities to roam the radio dial. But but BUT: my first song recommendation from Spotify was Lewis Capaldi's Someone You Loved, which was not good for me. And when I say it was not good for me, I mean that song fucking destroyed me. But since then, I'm spending at least an hour a day on the app, finding new music I enjoy (and that doesn't make me want to jump off a cliff). I've been assembling playlists of songs that make me want to get up and dance, and my plan is to have that shit going whenever I'm cooking, or eating a meal, or anytime I'm not otherwise involved in something that requires quiet.
• The hiking, yoga, and meditation count toward this as well, so let's throw 'em in here.

Creative health

This is a Big Deal for me: I may be a computer geek by trade, but I'm a creative at heart. When I was young, that was all about music and musical theatre. More recently, it's been all about theatre, but since that's not really on the table, it's time to explore other avenues. It's true that writing is creative, but let's be honest here: the vast majority of what I write is about my grief - and while that is creating, it's not so much creative as it is cathartic. Although, full disclosure, writing doesn't feel very cathartic anymore, because the thoughts aren't pouring out of me like water from a fire hose these days. So I'm going to explore some other areas of creativity:

• Creative writing, whether that's short stories or poetry or fiction or the makings of a play: I don't know how it'll go, but The Artist's Way assures me that, if I put in the focused effort, the creative juices will flow.
• Drawing and painting: I've never been a visual artist; it's just not my thing. My mother could draw beautifully, and while I inherited her lovely blue eyes, I did not inherit her eye for visual arts. That said, drawing and painting are fun - even if the result is actually shit. And who knows? Maybe I'll surprise myself.
• Music: I play a bunch of instruments (all woodwinds and brass), although I own only a flute, piccolo, and Native American flute. Over the years, I've had ideas for songs, but really didn't have any way to make them a reality. I mean, I can write lyrics, and come up with a melody, but you can't play chords on a trumpet or oboe, y'know? I thought maybe I'd buy a cheap guitar and start learning that while I'm away. So I called my sister and brother-in-law, because he's a guitar player; I figured he'd be able to give me advice.
  
  Well, it turns out guitar is not for me. You see, I have long nails. They're not freakishly long, but they're long enough. And these aren't acrylics: they're all mine. I give myself a manicure every two weeks, and having pretty nails - shallow though it may be - is important to me. And I'm not cutting them just to play an instrument. I'd done some research, and discovered that Dolly Parton plays using open tuning, which allows her to play chords without the contortions that require short nails. Dan, bless him, suggested that Dolly is a national treasure who can do no wrong, but playing guitar with long nails is simply not reasonable for anyone who isn't her.
  
  But then, he suggested the Autoharp. Being a Damn Yankee, I'd never heard of the Autoharp; it's a type of chorded zither:
  
  
  
  See those buttons? You press a button, and strum the strings to play the associated chord. In other words, it's super easy to play for a newbie (of course, challenging to master, but I'm just looking to be able to play chord progressions here). So, I bought one. Maybe the songwriting muse will hit, but even if it doesn't, I can think of worse ways to end the day than sitting on the deck, sipping on a nice bourbon and strumming some chords.

Honoring and connecting to Doug

• Being in a cabin in the mountains, even if I don't do anything else specifically dedicated to Doug, will make me feel connected to him, just as being at the ocean would: he and I both love the mountains and the ocean (we often said that if we ever came into a shit ton of money, we'd buy a cabin and the mountains and a cottage on the beach), even if he couldn't be as active as we would have liked. I know I'll feel close to him there.
• Our first wedding anniversary is October 17. Weather permitting, I hope to find a lovely spot in the Blue Ridge Mountains to scatter some of Doug's ashes: the thing we most wanted to do together - aside from the simple pleasure of living our lives together - was travel. Obviously, we can't do that now. But I can leave a little bit of him wherever I travel, and that will have to be enough.
• I have some things I want to say to Doug, and I think our anniversary would be a good day to start a tradition of writing to him - maybe not every day, but certainly on days with special meaning to us. I've bought a lovely journal just for that purpose.

My sister, God love her, said she's proud of me for taking this trip and taking a big chunk of time away from work and committing that time to trying to heal. I understand and appreciate that, but I kinda feel like it's misplaced: these are desperation moves, truly. I'm grasping at straws to see if spending two weeks doing nothing but taking care of me will help me get to a mental and emotional place where I can see some hope. Not gonna lie, though: I am pretty excited about getting my hands on that Autoharp (scheduled to be delivered September 25).

I'll be super busy the next three weeks, pulling together everything I need to take with me (really glad to have that SUV now), planning, and getting the house in decent enough shape for my son, who is kindly house sitting for me so the cats will be taken care of. I can't say I'm super excited about the trip (beyond the excitement about the new instrument), and I can't say I'm hopeful that it will make a difference. But I am looking forward to the change in scenery, and I'm at least open to the possibility that the trip will prove helpful.

11 months ago

It's 12:38 AM as I'm starting to write this post, and I've been awake for... roughly 20 hours, having awakened at 4:00 AM yesterday, having stayed up past 11:00 PM Tuesday night. I've gone off food again, too. I have a feeling I'm going to have a lot more of these days/nights over the next few months.

11 months ago today, this was me:

I'd just put the finishing touches on my hair and makeup, and 20 minutes or so later, I was standing in the most beautiful spot in the world, with the most beautiful man in the world, promising to love him forever.

I loved everything about our wedding: I loved that we bought matching rings, and engraved them with sweet-yet-funny messages to each other. I loved that we wrote our own vows - and did not share them with each other ahead of time - and yet we both managed to keep them to about the same length, and filled them with love and laughter. I loved that it was just us, the officiant, and the photographer and videographer, because it was so intimate that it really felt like the world belonged just to us. I even loved that rainstorm that came out of nowhere on the beach, because what could be more Hawaiian an experience than getting drenched right after your wedding, right?

I don't know how I'm right here, right now, without Doug. It still feels fundamentally wrong, as though there's been some rip in the space/time continuum, and if we could just find a way to repair that, then maybe I could have him back. I know that can't happen, of course. But I still wish for it. I wish for him. I'd settle for a visit in my dreams, but I still haven't gotten even that small comfort.

11 months ago today, I thought I was embarking on the most beautiful adventure of my life. I wasn't wrong, but I sure didn't expect it to be over so soon.

The truth is that I'm really, really struggling; even more than it may seem. Not only is this not getting easier, it's actually getting harder every day. And sometimes I think that people talk to me or interact with me on social media and think I'm doing okay(ish), because I still have my snarky, acerbic sense of humor. But I'm not doing okay, y'all. Not by a long shot. The truth is that I don't want to live now any more now than I did 210 days ago.

That's not hyperbole: I have to weigh every possible thing - suggested medications, experiences - against its potential to be used for something I promised I wouldn't do. That's why I don't have a prescription for sleeping pills or antidepressants: I know that, if I have them, the odds are good that in a weak moment I'll swallow the whole damn bottle and chase it down with a bottle of bourbon. And I have A LOT of weak moments. I can't trust myself not to take advantage of such a temptation, so I keep the temptation as far away from me as possible - not because I don't want to do it, but because I promised I wouldn't.

I'm not telling y'all this to worry or scare you, because I'm still not planning to do myself in, however much I want to. I'm telling you this because I promised to be honest here, and that's my truth; it's the focus of every session with Brooke and every session with Grace the grief counselor. All the attempts I make to do... well, anything, are just distractions to fill the endless, excruciating hours. None of it brings me comfort. None of it brings me joy. None of makes life worth living, especially when "life" is me, alone in my house with nothing but my pets and my thoughts for company.

And I'm scared. All the time. Of everything but death. I'm afraid to go hiking at the cabin next month, because I've learned that there are indeed black bears in northern Georgia, and hiking alone is about the riskiest thing one can do, even with bear spray. (Fun fact: a little research indicates that bear spray may not be the foolproof get-out-of-bear-attack-alive card it may seem, even when the human in question manages to have enough time to use the bear spray). Hell, I get nervous walking the dog at night in my own damn yard, because if I trip and break a leg or sprain an ankle (or, y'know, break a hip, because I'm old), there's nobody here to help me. I'm scared of getting sick enough to require assistance, because there's nobody who would take care of me like Doug would; there's nobody to take care of me at all. I'm scared to ask people to hang out with me (appropriately distanced and masked, of course), because I'm afraid of rejection, and I'm afraid of being needy or a burden. I'm scared that I'll lose it at work, and I don't mean in the cry-through-an-entire-conversation-with-the-boss way (I already popped that particular cherry), but more of the someone-said-something-that-set-me-off-and-I-totally-lost-my-shit-in-a-meeting way. 

11 months ago today, I had the life I'd always wanted but never thought I would get to experience. Today, I sit in my empty, quiet house, with the empty bed where I've slept only a handful of times in the past 210 days, with the empty arms that want nothing more than to hold my husband, and with a heart so shattered that I'm absolutely sure it's beyond repair.

I think I've given up on trying to make people understand; I think it's impossible for anyone to understand unless they've been here. It's sad to resign myself to not ever being understood again, but it seems I'm speaking a dead language (hah - see what I did there? like I said - I still have my sense of humor) that almost no one understands. And not being understood may be even more isolating than the physical isolation.

11 months ago today, I was so happy and so loved. I miss feeling those feelings, but not nearly as much as I miss Doug's face, and his smile, and his smell, and his voice.

And now it's 1:50 AM, and I've gotta go figure out how to fill the next four-and-a-bit hours until I can start work.

When Facebook memories attack

Facebook reminded me that exactly three years ago today, I watched My Love, Don't Cross That River. It made quite an impression: I posted that it "ripped my heart out, threw it on the floor, and stomped it. UGLY crying, y'all." I remember it vividly; I remember it physically. I remember watching it and thinking that would be Doug and me someday: old-old-old, still laughing, still making fun of each other, still touching all the time. I remember FEELING Gye-yeul's pain when Byong-man died. I remember the heavy feeling, like a rock in the pit of my stomach, knowing that someday I would almost certainly be where she was; I remember the thought being so terrifying that I had to stop thinking about it, because I nearly had a panic attack.

"Someday," of course, was supposed to be at least 20 years away; that's the deal we made.

Little did I know that I'd find myself in Gye-yeul's shoes less than three years later. And with the clarity that only hindsight and widowhood can bring to this film's interpretation, I can say that the feelings the film elicited in me when I watched it three years ago were pretty damn close to how the real thing feels, albeit with less intensity. Except that now, there's no deciding not to think about it, because it's my reality.

Of course, Gye-yeul and Byong-man had over 70 years together, and so had a lifetime of history; I can't say our stories are analogous beyond the fact that we both lost the love of our lives. Another distinction: Gye-yeul knew her husband was dying long before his death, which I'm sure is its own special agony that I did not have to suffer. One thing she said, not long before he died, has stuck with me: "Hubby can go and get settled. And if I don't come soon enough, come and get me, will you, Hubby?"  How many times have I asked Doug to come and get me in the past almost-seven months? At least once every damn day. Near the end, Gye-yeul muses how nice it would be if they could go together, holding hands; I know now exactly what she meant.

I remember that she continued to talk to Byong-man after he died, as though he were still right there, as I often talk to Doug. I remember her wailing inconsolably, as I so often do. I remember thinking that the only comfort was that, at 89, she likely wouldn't have to wait too long to join him.

As of 2019 (the most recent update I could find), she was still alive, which may be the saddest thing I've ever heard.

I ask again - and I probably will, every day, until I either find an answer or give up (because maybe if I keep asking, I'll get an answer from someone or from the universe): what do you do when you DESPERATELY need hope, but there's no hope to be had? Where do you find hope when you don't even believe it exists?

The return of the sportsballs

The title of this post is a nod to a friend of Doug's and mine - a theatre person through and through, and not remotely interested in athletics - who refers to all sports thusly. 😊

Tonight was the first football game of the year. It was the first live sporting event I've watched since UT's last basketball game 187 days ago, only16 days after Doug died. It was also the first football game I've watched without Doug in nearly five years. I knew it would be emotional; I wondered how far into the game I'd get before I started crying.

Bitch, I didn't even make it to kickoff. 🤦‍♀️

I'd set a couple of beer glasses in the freezer to get nice and frosty. I'd ordered wings to be delivered. I'd set out one of our shot glasses from Hawaii and the Jack Daniels Honey. When my food was delivered, I got a glass out of the freezer, poured a beer, and set it on the counter. Then I took the shot glass, poured the Honey Jack, and set that on the counter next to the beer.

And that's when I realized that, without even thinking about it, I'd set up in exactly the spot where we always used to set up when one of us would pour our customary beer-and-a-shot; a spot that we really never used for anything else (with the annual exception of Christmas cookie baking). Strike One. Then I had this sense memory of stepping over to look into the living room to say, "your cocktail is prepared" in the most exaggerated Southern Belle accent ever. Strike Two. I picked up my shot glass, and toasted Doug; I wanted to say something sweet, maybe something silly. But what came out was "you're supposed to be here, dammit." Strike Three; cue the waterworks.

Final tallies for the night:

• Kansas City: 34
• Houston: 20
• Shots of Jack Daniels Honey with a chaser of Dragon's Milk Bourbon Barrel Stouts consumed: 3(!)
• Wings consumed: 8
• Fries consumed: Sorry, didn't count
• Kleenex used: Who the hell would count that?!? I mean, it was a lot, but fewer than I expected: drowning my sorrows in a LOT of high gravity beer, Jack Daniels Honey, and chocolate truffle cashew milk "ice cream" was quite effective. I can't do that every day, but for tonight, it got the job done.

Yeah, I'm gonna hate myself when I get up at 5:00 tomorrow morning, but no regrets. I did what I needed to do to get through the game.

In other news, the burning question from today's therapy session: what do you do when you DESPERATELY need hope, but there's no hope to be had?

200

It's another crisp, sunny, beautiful day. Just like yesterday and the day before. But today, there's no pushing it down.

200 days. 

200 days since my love died. 200 days without feeling his arms around me. 200 days without hearing him tell me that he loves me. 200 days without hearing him call me "wife." 200 days without bringing him his morning coffee, or cooking him dinner, or hearing his laugh, or hearing him say "I'm not laughing AT you; I'm laughing at YOU." 200 days without the love of my life. 200 days without the other half of my heart.

200 days without so much as a brief visit in a dream, or a whiff of his smell, or any sign that he's still with me. 

200 days of being more alone than I ever imagined I could be. 200 days without hope. 200 days of screaming into the void, wanting desperately to be understood - in vain, because nobody does, because nobody can. 200 days of wishing I could just go and be with him.

I keep hearing that it gets easier. I'd sure like to know when that's going to happen, because 200 days is a really long fucking time to be this relentlessly sad, lonely, and devoid of hope. 

200 days is a really long time to be alive when you can't think of one good reason to be. It's a long time to go through the motions of being a human being when you're dead inside. It's a really long time to cry every single day.

I keep hearing that I'm here for a reason. What fucking reason, hmmm? Some cosmic entity is enjoying watching me suffer? Because that's what I do: I suffer. I work, and I take care of our pets, and very occasionally I socialize, sorta, thanks to the wonders of modern technology. But the overwhelming majority of my time is spent suffering.

What I'm experiencing can hardly be called a life. It's barely even an existence. Nearly six months ago, I wrote that I was a ghost, and today I can say that's still true. 

I've said all along that Hell can't be worse than what I'm forced to live against my will every day, but I'm beginning to wonder if I had it all wrong. Maybe this really IS Hell. Maybe my entire existence is a punishment for some horrible thing that I did in a past life that I can't even remember.  

I need hope, and there's no hope to be had.

I honestly don't know how much longer I can do this before I just give up. Standard disclaimer applies: no, I'm not going to kill myself. But why bother to even try to clean the house, or keep up with dishes or laundry, or pay attention to the news, or read a book, or do anything? Why bother to keep trying to find things to do just to pass the time? Why bother trying to eat healthy food, or limit my alcohol intake? Why bother to exercise? For that matter, why bother trying to avoid Covid? 

After 200 days, I still can't find a single reason to do any of it. So, today, I won't. I'm going to walk the dog, feed him and the cats, and then I'm going to take a melatonin and sleep the day away. Because the only time I'm not suffering is when I sleep.

It's Day 200, and it might as well be Day One. But sure - keep telling me it gets easier. I'm sure there's a lovely bridge you'd like to sell me, too.

Push it down

I opened my eyes this morning, having slept on the recliner in the living room (as I do most nights), with the front and back windows wide open. It was another crisp, cool, sunny, Autumn-like morning. Just like yesterday. Autumn is for football, and snuggles, and hoodies, and hot coffee with my hot husband. Yesterday, I started crying as soon as I got up. This morning, as soon as I opened my eyes and saw the sunlight and felt the cool breeze, I felt the tears coming again. (Push it down, Kathleen. Push it down.)

I got up, brushed my teeth, and then took Kellogg for a walk. Came back inside, fed Kellogg, and fed the cats. (Feeding the cats was Doug's job. Shit! Push it down, Kathleen.) Opened Facebook. Saw that one year ago today, I'd posted about leaving for Hawaii in 35 days and getting married in 41 days. Started to hyperventilate. (Push it down, Kathleen.)

Drank my coffee. When 8:00 came, I had an instant where I thought, "Gotta make Doug's coffee and wake him up." Just for an instant, mind you - and then I remembered. (Push it down, Kathleen.) Watched the morning news. Decided it was too nice outside to stay home all day, so I took Regina George (the new-to-me wheels) for a long drive with the sunroof open, the windows down, and the music blasting. Regina has a really good stereo system, and I wanted to see just how good it is. No lie, I had the volume maxed out, and there was no distortion. 

So there I was, cruising along... and everywhere I drove, there was another reminder of Doug: here, a theatre where we worked together. There, a store we shopped in a few times. Over there, a restaurant we went to whenever we had the chance. (Push it down, Kathleen.)

And then a Beatles song came on the radio. Doug LOVED the Beatles. (Push it down, Kathleen.) I changed the station before I started to cry. The station I flipped to was in the middle of Sawyer Brown's This Night Won't Last Forever. 🤦🏻‍♀️ Yeah, I know it's a breakup song, but the chorus (where I joined it in progress)... 

I know this night won't last forever
I know the sun has to shine sometime
I need some hope for a bright tomorrow
To show this heart's gonna mend just fine

Yeah, dude, I can relate. Especially to needing some hope. (Push it DOWN, Kathleen.)

Flipped the station again. Adele. (SERIOUSLY?!? Push it DOWN, Kathleen)

It was around this time that I decided I needed to find some serious rock music and crank up the volume, hence driving down Main Street blasting Rush's Tom Sawyer so loudly that I'm pretty sure it was heard in Watertown (sorry, folks). So, I've become what I used to make fun of: an old person driving a decidedly uncool vehicle, but blasting really good music as if that makes me cool by association. It does not, for the record.

Got home in time for a zoom call with a woman who runs an activist organization, and now here I am, exhausted. It occurred to me - and honestly, I don't know why it took so long for me to figure this out - that I'm exhausted because of how many times every day I have to tell myself to push it down. I'm exhausted because the only way I can be as functional as I am (which, admittedly, isn't very functional at all) is to push aside my feelings. Rather a Scarlett O'Hara approach ("I'll think about it tomorrow"), though I lack Vivien Leigh's beauty. I also lack her alcoholism, so at least there's that.

Of course I'm tired all the time: I'm constantly trying to bury my feelings so I can do the few things I actually manage to do. Compartmentalizing like that is hard work. I'm trying to go the "fake it 'til you make it" route, but honestly, I don't have any reason to believe the "make it" part is ever gonna happen.

And then, as often happens when I'm driving with no particular destination in mind, I had an idea. It started when I was thinking about how much I miss theatre; the Zoom script reads are fun, for sure. But they're no substitute for spending weeks developing a character and watching her slowly come to life. I miss that. I need it. Acting was part of what kept me sane. I need sanity.

And then, it hit me. The Idea. An idea that, much like the Grinch's, was probably a wonderfully awful idea: what if I combined my need for theatre with the "fake it 'til you make it" concept? What if I were to sit down and design a character - a character who is what I wish I were, and then make my entire life into a 24/7 performance art piece, living as if I were that character?

It's a tantalizing idea, taking "fake it 'til you make it" to such an extreme. Would I slowly transform into that character, or would it always be a performance? Would I really want to become that character? Is the mere idea disingenuous? Pathological? Would I have a psychotic break and think I'm actually that character? And would it be so bad if I did?

I don't have any answers here; I'm just thinking out loud. It's a really interesting concept to me, though, so I want to explore it more. 

So, there you have it; a glimpse into the weird shit that my brain comes up with when it's not preoccupied.

And now I'm going to watch golf and take a nap.

Remembering, becoming Real, and therapy shenanigans

I read something this morning written by a fellow widow, and there's one sentence that's been stuck in my brain ever since. "I remember being loved."

I was already having a bad day - a VERY bad day - not for any particular reason other than Grief runs the show these days, and Grief decided today was going to be a Very Bad Day. But that brief sentence took my already Very Bad Day, said, "hold my beer," and then broke me into a million pieces, because it says it ALL. "I remember being loved." Just sit with that sentence, and imagine that it's your reality. REALLY feel it: "I remember being loved." There's so much pain, and so much resignation, and so much longing in those four words. It stayed with me all day, on repeat in my mind, even as I was trying to work (and that wasn't great today, either). And every time it repeats, it has a different ending.

"I remember being loved." But I'm not anymore, and I probably won't be, ever again.

"I remember being loved." For four years. That's all I get?

"I remember being loved." And I didn't even realize I was missing it until it finally happened. Now, living without it is unbearable.

"I remember being loved." Too bad I can't have a nice psychotic break and live in my memories, where Doug is still alive. Anybody know how I can make that happen?

"I remember being loved." Maybe it would be easier if I could forget.

"I remember being loved." Now, I'm just another person using up oxygen and taking up space. I don't matter anymore. Not like I did to him.

"I remember being loved." It was everything. Life without it is nothing.

"I remember being loved." Doug and I used to joke about each of us being like the Velveteen Rabbit: we made each other Real. To me, he grew more handsome every day; to him, I grew more beautiful every day. So it didn't matter that most of his hair had been "loved off," or that I'd become "very shabby," because "once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand," and we both understood. Of course, the Velveteen Rabbit ends up abandoned and alone, just like me. And just like the Velveteen Rabbit, I have to wonder: "Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become Real if it all ended like this?" Because I don't think I'm Real anymore. Where's MY nursery magic fairy to take me away?

I have more to say on that, but I'll circle back to it in a bit.

I had my weekly session with Brooke this morning, sandwiched between two meetings. I spent most of it crying, literally begging her to just tell me what to do to get unstuck (I told her about yesterday's confirmation that I haven't made any progress at all in nearly six months). Of course, I know it's not her job to tell me what to do - it's nobody's job. But people, I'm desperate for some relief (but dude - not in the "Abducted in Plain Sight" way); I understand how people become drug addicts. Don't worry, I'm not going to become a drug addict: I hate swallowing pills, I'm sure AF not going to inject myself with anything, and I wouldn't know where to get the hard stuff even if I wanted to. I could drink myself into oblivion every night, I guess. Maybe I'll try that?

Brooke suggested I do something completely different - try to shake things up, just to break the monotony. It's kinda hard to shake things up when I'm stuck in my house alone, but okay. She actually suggested online dating, which may be the most hilarious thing I've ever heard. It's not so much that I'm opposed to dating (theoretically) should the opportunity present itself (which we all know is probably not happening now or ever). But online dating in particular is a minefield, and for someone who's older and... not conventionally attractive (Real, as it were), it's a recipe for a whole lot of nothing. 

An aside for anyone who's currently clutching their pearls at the mere suggestion of me even considering dating: yes, I know Doug's been gone barely more than six months; I actually know, to the day, how long he's been dead, which I'm guessing you don't, because I'm reminded that he's not here every minute of every day that I have to exist without him. I also know that it doesn't matter if I start dating in a week or a month or a year or a decade; I'll never stop loving him and I'll never replace him. But I wouldn't mind an opportunity to flex my flirting muscles, okay? Even if it doesn't go further than that. Brooke's not suggesting I go in search of a new mate, she's just suggesting I give it a shot; an experiment, if you will. Is it going to happen? Very unlikely, but I sure appreciate her managing to get me to laugh in the middle of a full hour of crying.

Back to the main topic of this post: "I remember being loved" kept coming back to me, over and over again, all day. And then I wrote an accidental haiku (I notice when this happens now, because there's a Reddit bot that finds accidental haiku in comments and points them out; evidently, seeing the bot's work has gotten me seeing them where I didn't before). Here's how it happened: I got hit, once again, with "I remember being loved." And then I thought, "That may be the saddest phrase I've ever heard." And before I knew it...

Saddest phrase ever?
"I remember being loved"
Mem'ries aren't enough

And now, I'm going to get back to crying, because that's what Grief demands today.

Supporting the grieving widow, the sequel

Way, way back, in March - in fact, exactly one month after Doug's surgery - I wrote a post about supporting the grieving widow. I planned on this post being about supporting the grieving widow more than six months out. I figured that I'd be able to contrast how I am and what I need now with how I was and what I needed then, but...

Every damn word I wrote on March 17 is still 100% accurate. My GOD, I really AM still stuck in mid-March.

This is terrifying. It's damn near panic-attack-inducing. I haven't moved the needle at ALL. IN SIX MONTHS. How long am I going to be stuck here?!? In our session Tuesday, Grace the Grief Counselor asked if I want to feel better. I didn't know how to answer, honestly. I mean, I do want to, theoretically; I just don't believe it's possible. 

Anyway, since it turns out I need the same exact thing I needed in March, there's not much else to say. To those of you who are still hanging out, watching this train wreck unfold in real time and providing encouragement when you can, thank you. To the few of you (and you know who you are) who get just that teensiest bit pushy and force me to schedule time together - because you know that I'll NEVER ask, no matter how lonely I feel: I love you. I'm probably still here because of you. 

And on that note, I'm gonna go have my third beer of the evening. Because if this revelation that I'm exactly as stuck as I thought I was isn't reason to get plastered, I don't know what is.