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.