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.