I almost didn’t care enough to write this.
I almost said “Screw it. I’m tired of writing out my goddamn feelings. Why am I doing this anyway? What’s the point?”
I’m sick of myself. I’m tired of being sad. Tired of pretending that I’m not sad. Tired of the constant explaining to people who will never understand. Tired of everyone misinterpreting my feelings and emotions. Tired of having emotions. Tired of feeling like I’m a failure at grief. Like I missed all those extensive classes on Widow Etiquette. I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in FuckYou-Ville. Oops.
Something has happened inside of me. It started slowly, right around the one-year mark of his death. About two months ago.
The lights went out.
My eyes shut off. My heart shut down. My brain is fried. My legs don’t work right. I feel so heavy. The 12 months of sleepless nights has finally caught up with me. My skin is dry. My nails are weak. I’m on the edge of a cliff and I don’t have the energy or motivation to move. There’s a mac truck coming straight for me and I just stand there. Frozen. If it runs me over, that’s cool. If it doesn’t, that’s fine too. The wheels and the weight of a truck crushing my body can’t possibly hurt as much as the pain of losing my husband.
Nothing can hurt as much as the pain of losing my husband.
Pain. I have felt so much of it, that I no longer feel it. Go ahead. Hit me in the head with a hammer. I might not notice. Take my dreams and smash them into pieces. Whatever. Insult me on the deepest and most personal level. You can’t hurt me. I’m already dead.
I don’t mean to be overdramatic. But it’s the truth. I am gone. The person that used to occupy this body is not here anymore. Everything that I am is different. Everything I feel is different. My insides have been scooped out, and now it’s just hollow. Like a tin can. You can almost hear the emptiness in the echo. Time to rebuild, but I’m much too tired. Fuck it.
There are some things you can never forget. There are some moments that stay inside you forever. There is no turning back from where I am now. Once you have seen your own husband lying in a casket – you are no longer the same. Once you have experienced the very real and terrifying knowledge that anyone can be taken from you at any time with no warning – you live your life differently. You just do.
My anchor is gone. My best friend. The person that I turned to in times like this, when I feel lost beyond measure. He isn’t here. And neither am I.
I’m tired. I’m numb. I’m Blah.
My birthday that passed last week? The old me walked around reminding anyone who would listen that it was my “birthday month.” The old me loved cake and wishes and birthday date nights with my husband, and romantic cards from him and the kitty cats. The new me let the day pass by like any other day. Friends tried to make it special for me with dinners and cupcakes and packages in the mail. So appreciated. My face tried to smile but my heart felt blah.
The 90 minutes of non-moving traffic I was in last week en route to a grief support group, that made me over an hour late? Old me would be cursing and sweating and panicking and pissed. New me doesn’t care much. There are worse things in life to get pissed at. Traffic is not one of them.
The gorgeous sunset from my new bedroom window? Not the same without my husband to share it with. The Yankees coming back to dramatically tie it up in the bottom of the 9th, and then win it in the 12th, on the second to last game of the season? Yeah. It sucks cheering alone. The apple cider beer we used to both love drinking together every fall? Not as great as I remember it.
Everything just feels blah. Good things. Bad things. All of it. Blah.
I remember happy. I recall joy. I just don’t feel it. I know that I will crawl through life and that I will eventually be “okay.” I’ll get by. There will be laughter and friends and family and maybe even dreams realized.
It’s just impossible to imagine that any of that could ever really mean anything when I don’t have my partner to share it with. To live life with. To stand in the rain with and drink lemonade and play a game of catch in central park with. To grow old with. To get sick with. To pay bills with and fight with and hear incredible music with and watch our niece and nephew grow up with. To go to weddings and funerals with, and to dance with, and cry with, and to vote in the next election with. To split a pizza with. To retire with. To have a family with. To celebrate anniversaries with. To face the future with. To face the fear of death with. To die with.
All things in life, whether awful or lovely, should be shared with that person you chose to love forever.
When forever is taken away, and you’re forced to continue breathing, all you are really left with is blah.
I’m all out of screaming. I’m fresh out of pissed. The only thing I have in stock is BLAH.
Blah. Pounds and pounds of blah. I’m drowning in the stuff, and if I had more life in me, I’d pick my ass up and get the hell out of the ocean. But I can’t be bothered. Not right now.
Go ahead and walk on by. I’ll be here on my raft of blah. Floating.