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.