It's been about a month since my last post, and more than two months since I went into near-total seclusion from everyone: I talk to my son every few days, and very rarely, my sister, step-daughter, and bestie. Otherwise, it's all me, all the time, alone with my thoughts (when I'm not working). And it's been more than ten months since the love of my life died.
And honestly? I'm doing... better. Not great, and maybe not even good. But better. And no one is more surprised by that than I am.
This is going to be a multi-part kinda deal, because I have a lot to say. I want to talk a bit about where I was during and after those last two posts, and then I want to talk about where I am now and how I got here. And finally, I want to talk about the future and what I think (hope) that will look like. SURPRISE! 'Time' didn't have a damn thing to do with it; as I've said before, time doesn't do anything but pass. Now, anybody who follows me on Facebook or Twitter has probably already noticed that I'm being a bit more sociable - virtually, at least. So I thought it might be helpful (for future me, for other widow/ers who may happen on this, and for my extended friends and family) to get an explanation as to what the fuck?
Please note, other widow/ers who might be reading: I am under exactly zero obligation to explain to anyone how I got from A to B, and neither are you, so don't think I'm saying anyone who isn't me should do this. I'm doing it because I promised to be totally honest and transparent here, and I'm gonna honor that. And, because - maybe - reading about my experience may help you, if you're where I was (and likely will be again).
Where was I? Oh, yeah... this is going to be in several parts. This first one is going to be a deep dive into where I was, and if talk about death/suicide/grief so heavy it may as well be dark matter is going to be triggering for you, you might want to sit this one out and pick up when I post Part II.
When last I posted, things were bad. Things were as bad as they could possibly have been. My trip to Georgia was a colossal failure that left me absolutely certain that I was 100% correct back on Day One when I said that I died right along with Doug (as it turns out, I really was 100% correct, and I'll explain that... at some point in this series of posts). Nothing gave me any joy or peace; nothing gave me comfort; I couldn't do ANY of the things I used to do to relieve stress or feel better when I was down. Not only did I have no life or semblance thereof, I couldn't see any way that I ever would again.
I wasn't just gazing into the abyss; I was enveloped by it. Hell, I became it. I was a black hole so dark and so dense with misery that no light could get in or out. I was toxic, to myself and anyone who got too close. So I cut off all communication (for a full month, I don't think I talked to anyone but my son, other than meetings at work). No therapy, no grief counseling, no grief group. And God/dess love my friends and family, they left me to do it, with no complaints (no complaints that they shared with me, anyway). Every now and then, I'd get a text from someone just checking in, but no one pressured me to engage with the living, and I'll be forever grateful for that because I truly didn't have it in me. I was dead inside, and dealing with the living was just too painful. I'm especially grateful for their understanding because I was incapable of being any kind of friend or family member. I literally did not have it in me; my pain was so all-encompassing that there was not room for anyone else's pain (or their happiness, for that matter). My world shrunk down around me until it was just me, my son, my pets, and my work - that last one out of necessity alone. That grace that I was given by so many people? That means the world to me. Without it, I have no doubt I'd still be stuck where I was then.
I stopped trying to find ways to distract myself from my pain, or "get past" it. I dove into it. I marinated in my loss. I became one with my grief, and my pain, and my fear, and my aloneness. I screamed (a lot). I slammed doors (a whole lot). At one point, I considered rehoming Kellogg, Marmalade, and Houdini because I was afraid that being around me in my misery was dangerous to their emotional health, but ultimately decided against it because having them around helps keep me grounded. Yeah, that's selfish. So be it.
I did one other thing during those first few weeks after I got back from Georgia: I planned my death.
I say this because I think it's important to understand that it is possible to want to die - to make plans to die, even - and stay alive anyway. Obviously, everyone is different, but for me, it was the right thing. I took the time to research, identified a method that would achieve my goals of being as painless and foolproof as possible (and no, I'm not going to share what it is, because I'm not about to enable somebody else who's in a bad place), figured out what supplies I'd need, figured out where I'd obtain those supplies, decided where I'd check out and and how I'd guarantee that it wouldn't be a loved one who would find me, decided how I'd make sure that all paperwork was in order, that the house was in order, that all accounts were either closed or noted for my son to do it...
Yes, I know that sounds scary, but FOR ME - and ONLY for me - doing all that work (and it's important to know that I never actually purchased any of those supplies) and all that planning actually eased my burden just a tiny bit. Because I gave myself the option - because I had it sitting in my back pocket and knew that I could avail myself of it with just a few weeks' lead time if I decided that enough was enough - I didn't need to take it. I took all those months of obsessing about wanting to die, and effectively said to myself, "OK; you've got it all planned, and if you decide that you're really done, you can take yourself out. So you can stop thinking about that now and devote your energy and limited brain power to something else." Giving myself permission to check out on my own terms, paradoxically, made it easier not to do it.
What I've described above encompasses the six week period between Doug's and my first not-an-anniversary and roughly Thanksgiving. And on Thanksgiving, my son and I shared a takeout dinner from Nashville's famous Loveless Cafe (I split everything in half and he did a porch pickup the night before Thanksgiving). I supplemented their meal (which: very good!) with my own dressing, an apple pie, and some bourbon whipped cream. Andrew and I got on a zoom call and ate dinner together. We planned to watch Christmas Vacation as per tradition, but streaming a movie in a zoom call is... subpar.
It's important that you understand that, on Thanksgiving, I still wanted to die. I mean, I still do, to the extent that I wouldn't be upset if it happened. But I'm not begging for death every night anymore. Some nights, yes. But not every night.
And that takes us to Part II. Tomorrow.
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