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.