Our First Not-an-Anniversary

The TL; DR, in case you don't want to read the whole thing: I'm done.

Doug and I should be celebrating our first full year of marriage right now; we should be marveling at how we keep falling more deeply in love with every passing day (because we did); we should be dreaming about that safari in Kenya that was going to be our next big trip.

But we aren't celebrating, and we never will. There's no anniversary card signed "All my love, always, Doug." There's no waking up in each other's arms. There's no watching the UT game together, kissing every time the Vols score a touchdown. There's no anything, and there never will be again.

The first evening I spent with Doug came to be known as our first not-a-date. Three years and one day later, when he proposed, he didn't initially say, "will you marry me?" but instead "will you spend the rest of your life with me?", which led to us joking about his not-a-proposal. I suppose, in hindsight, I should have expected this not-an-anniversary, but stupid me: I thought we'd finally found our happily ever after.

For 238 days now, I've been desperately seeking something - ANYTHING - that would give me a reason to feel as though life is worth living without him. For 238 days, I've found nothing.

I'm now absolutely certain that I never will.

This exercise - coming to a cabin in the mountains for two weeks to see if being in nature would do what it's always done in the past (clear my head, make me feel connected to Mother Earth, give me fresh resolve) - this was my last hope, really. And it's failed. It's failed spectacularly. I can see, intellectually, that it's beautiful here. But I'm unmoved. I can feel the sun on my skin, and yet I can't get warm. As I fall asleep each night (which is really more collapsing from exhaustion, as I never get that sigh of contentment that lying down to sleep at night used to provide), I can feel the soft sheets and blanket, but I don't feel comfortable.

All I feel - all I EVER feel - is bereft, or terrified, or angry.

Ironically, Doug fell in love with me partly because I didn't need saving: I was a whole person, with a whole life, and I didn't need anything from him but his company. And now? Oh, I need saving. I couldn't more need to be saved if I were tossed into the middle of the ocean without a life raft. But the only thing that can possibly save me is the love that I lost at 6:10 PM on February 20 as I held Doug's hand and stroked his leg, BEGGING him to come back to me while a team of people tried valiantly to help him do just that. And the only person who can save me is the man who died and took that love with him.

I've tried eating right. I've tried exercise. I've tried journaling, meditation, yoga, music, art, virtual socializing, grief counseling, therapy, and grief group. Nothing works. Nothing eases the despair. Nothing makes a dent. NOTHING moves the needle, not even the tiniest bit. 

I won't kill myself - even though, really, all I want is to be done with this fucking ridiculous excuse for a life. I won't, because there's no guaranteed foolproof way to do it. But make no mistake about it: my life is over. I can't try anymore, because there's nothing TO try. I've tried it all, and it hasn't worked.

I won't kill myself, but there's no rule that says I have to actively participate in a life that has nothing to offer me. So I'm opting out. 

I'll work, and I'll take care of these poor animals who are saddled with a permanently broken human. Eventually, they'll age and die, and I'll be free of that obligation. And eventually, I'll lose my job, too - because let's stop pretending I'm even remotely competent anymore, at work, or at anything else. And then I'll lose my house and be on the streets. And maybe then, my heart will finally catch on and stop beating. If I'm lucky, maybe it'll happen sooner. If I'm REALLY lucky, maybe it'll happen tonight.

There's no point in continuing to beat this dead horse and try to find something worth having in this shithole existence. There's no point in socializing. There's no point in continuing therapy or grief counseling. There's no point in any of it. I'm just waiting to die, so why go to the trouble of pretending otherwise? To make everyone else feel better? I don't think so.

And if you're thinking that I have too much to offer the world, and it's not fair of me to just sit and wait to die when people need me, fuck that and fuck you. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO FINALLY BE OUR TIME TO BE HAPPY AND IT'S GONE. You have no fucking CLUE. Do you still get to celebrate anniversaries with your spouse? Did you get to celebrate even a SINGLE anniversary with your beloved? Yes? Then you don't know, so SHUT THE FUCK UP. Do you live every goddamn fucking minute in total misery? Are you terrified of things you used to enjoy? No? Then SHUT THE FUCK UP. Are you still able to enjoy reading a fucking book? Eating a delicious meal? Watching the sunrise? Are you able to enjoy ANYTHING? Yes? Then SHUT THE FUCK UP. Are YOU going to hold me while I sleep every night, and enjoy hundreds of little inside jokes, and live life with me? No, you're not. SO SHUT. THE FUCK. UP. 

And PLEASE, spare me the suggestion of antidepressants. I'm not clinically depressed because my brain is fucked up, I'm depressed because IT'S THE RATIONAL RESPONSE TO MY FUCKING NOT-A-LIFE. Are antidepressants going to make me enjoy the work I used to love? Or make me competent to do that work? No. Are they going to make me able to read a fucking book again without having to take notes to remember what I read THREE FUCKING PARAGRAPHS AGO? No. Are antidepressants going to hold me when I sleep? Make love to me? Joke with me? No, no, and no. What's wrong with me cannot be healed with a goddamn pill. It can't be healed at all. 

I don't care that it's selfish. I don't care if you hate me for it. I. DON'T CARE. I CAN'T care, because I'm dead inside, and there's nothing that's going to bring me back.

I DIED WITH DOUG. Period. The fact that my heart still beats is irrelevant.

To those of you who love me, who tried to help, who tried to be here for me, I'm sorry. I'm just not strong enough to do this; I knew it on February 20, and I know it now. The universe has given me its message: NO LOVE FOR YOU; NO HAPPINESS FOR YOU. All I'm doing is acknowledging that the message has been received; all I'm doing is giving in, because there's no use in fighting it anymore. 

I have nothing now but the wish that my husband will come for me and take me to wherever he is. And that's all I'm ever going to have. 

So I'll go back to Tennessee a week from tomorrow, and I'll get my affairs in order, and just keep willing myself to die until it finally happens. And I'm going to do it alone. Y'all can move on along, because there's nothing more to see here. My phone is on Do Not Disturb, and that's where it's going to stay. There's nothing anyone can say or do that's going to change my mind, and there's no one I want to talk to. I'm done.