This post is Part IV (and the last) in a series. If you haven't already, you might want to go back and read Part I, Part II, and Part III, and then come back.
In my previous post, I said that - although I'm doing better in general - I've had (and will continue to have) setbacks and bad days. This past week, unsurprisingly, has been a minefield full of them.
December 20 was bad: it was exactly ten months since Doug died, a dear friend of ours died the night before, and those two things together kept me from sleeping more than a few hours. I was in an ugly crying fest for much of the day. I wanted to - and very nearly did - just stay on the couch all day. I ate breakfast, but then... I was in my head, and in my heart, and just couldn't escape the pain. By noon, I realized I hadn't even finished my first 20oz of water. So I went and got more, but my eyes were burning and I was exhausted and I spaced out watching something on TV (can't even remember what). Before I realized it, it was 3:30 PM (way too late for a nap even though all I wanted to do was sleep). And I had that insulated 20oz bottle, still full of water. And I hadn't eaten lunch. Nor had I divvied up and packaged for freezing the 8 cups of Moroccan rice, 7 cups of chickpeas, and half-gallon of chicken stock I'd made the day before. And the breakfast dishes were still in the sink.
But here's the thing: that routine I put in place? It kinda saved the day. I've been drinking a gallon of water every day for several weeks, and I'm not going to miss a day now. So I got back on track and started drinking my damn water. And when I went into the kitchen for more, I saw the dishes in the sink and thought, "ok, it'll only take a minute, and you'll be mad at yourself if you don't do it," so I unloaded the dishwasher, then loaded the breakfast dishes.
And since I was already in the kitchen, I went ahead and got all the food from my Big Cook the day before into the freezer. Never did eat dinner, but I'ma give myself a pass, given what day it was and that I did everything else I needed to do.
So, yeah: the 20th was a Very Bad Day. So was the 22nd; oh, how I wanted to scrap my planned dinner (Moroccan tofu, root vegetables and brussels sprouts) and order a bleu cheeseburger with a spiked milkshake from Burger Republic. But I've allocated "treat" days for a reason: that food is delicious, and would certainly give me a little much-needed hedonistic pleasure - but it also makes me feel like shit physically. So I made my planned dinner, stuck to the rest of my routine, and got through the day.
The routine is everything. I'm still lonely AF and not particularly happy to still be among the living, but it keeps me physically stronger. And it keeps me functioning as well as I can cognitively - within the limits I still have, of course. Yes, I'm aware that routine can become a crutch; eventually I'll have to be flexible again. But that time isn't now, while I'm still hanging on by a thread and stuck by myself all the time (thanks, Covid!). And it's not that sticking to the routine does anything to make the pain easier; but what it does do is keep me physically stronger, which makes me better able to cope with the Very Bad Days.
I did nothing for Christmas, which was exactly what I was willing and able to do. I was not feeling anything to celebrate, and so I just pretended that it was a day off with an excuse to eat some really decadent and not particularly healthy food. Optimal? No. Survival instinct? Yes indeedy. The dark woods continue to close in on plenty of days, and I no doubt that they will do so to one degree or another for as long as I live.
But I did plan for Christmas: Eggs Benedict (with smoked salmon instead of Canadian bacon) and smashed potatoes for breakfast, Crab cakes with roasted asparagus (gotta use all that hollandaise, right?) for dinner. My plan was to eat decadent food, drink enough booze to maintain a nice buzz all day without getting hammered, and watch Rare Exports, followed by The Hebrew Hammer, followed by Jingle Jangle and then whatever else struck my fancy.
I cooked everything Thursday, and my son did a porch pickup of his share so we could eat together on Christmas via Zoom.
You know what they say about the best-laid plans, right?
As I was watching the news Christmas morning, a bomb detonated in downtown Nashville. A few hours later, my internet went out, and with it, my plans to Zoom with The Boy, and my plans to watch those movies, because no internet means no streaming. Interestingly, my cable TV held out until early Saturday afternoon (and thank the gods, because I don't know what I would've done all Christmas day otherwise - but I know it probably wouldn't have been good for me).
I posted a "I know plenty of people have it worse, but COME ON!" Facebook post, because venting is important. And then devised a backup plan: I had all of the current season of Fargo on the DVR, so I watched a good chunk of that. And I talked to my son several times on the phone; it's not Zoom, but beggars, choosers, yadda, yadda, yadda. And then, two friends dropped off their mobile hotspot for me to use, so I'd be able to work come Monday (because I doubted that my internet access will be back by then, though AT&T surprised me and got it done).
I got through the day. It sure wasn't great, but it wasn't as terrible as I'd feared, and I think that's because I've been taking good care of my body and that's helping my emotional state. I expect New Year's Eve will be a very different story, but I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. And I'll explain why I expect it to be worse than Christmas in a separate post, because this series is already longer than I think anyone would find reasonable.
I also have no doubt that dwelling in that very dark place for as long as I did - and even in that impenetrably dark place - was necessary, and is probably the reason why I'm even contemplating a future, however bleak that future looks to me right now. The single worst thing a grieving person can do is to try to make an end run around their grief by staying busy or drunk or socializing or hooking up with strangers or meds or anything of the many unhealthy coping mechanisms one might use to escape one's demons.
The only way to live with grief is to face it head on, and I've done that - probably to extremes, to the casual observer - and will continue to do it. I faced down that terrifying darkness all by myself for two full months, and I'm really proud of myself for that: it was the most painful, scary, empty, lonely time I've ever experienced, and the single hardest thing I've ever done, but I did it. Sadly, I know it isn't over, and it won't ever be over, not really. There are going to be more Very Bad Days, and I know I won't always be ready for them. But I know I can get through them, and I probably will get through them, even though just a few weeks ago I was absolutely sure I wouldn't, couldn't, and really didn't want to. Let's just hope that my future trips to the abyss are short-lived, because I don't know if I can do two long months of that ever again.
I'm better. I'm not good, but I'm better. While I still don't particularly want to live, I am alive. And while I still don't feel as though it's possible to ever be truly happy again, I'm willing to try; and that's something.
Five days after Doug died, I wrote, "I feel like I'm made of plate glass with millions of tiny, spiderlike cracks; any sudden movement is likely to shatter me into so many pieces that I'll never be able to be put back together." I still feel that way, a lot of the time. But, more and more, I'm more like tempered glass: not unbreakable by any stretch of the imagination, and I can still shatter into a million pieces if I'm "hit" hard enough; but I'm definitely not as fragile as I was. It's not the same as being happy; it's still not a life in any meaningful way. But, again - it's something.
I expect I'll start writing more frequently again as I begin to dip my toe back into the world of the living, and I hope you'll come along for the ride.
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