I wonder if all widow's ask themselves this question.
I have a big family, but not many friends. Bill was it for me, my best friend, my husband, my lover. When he died I lost everything.
My daughter assures my that I am not alone, but she doesn't understand. I am alone, completely and utterly alone.
In a room filled with hundreds of people, I am still alone, for the man who knew what I was thinking, feeling is no longer there.
The man who often knew something was bothering my long before I could put a name to it is gone.
Yesterday I went to the doctor. He is such a nice man and the last one of 'our' doctors I have to see since Bill's death. There were several appointments we put off with him as there were so many other health issues going on.
Of course he wanted to know what happened and in the retelling, there is the reliving. It's incredibly painful and I put forth great effort into 'not' thinking about that day, 193 days ago.
I don't want to remember for when I do it once again become fresh, a ragged, open wound.
How long the fresh pain lasts is anyone's guess, a day, a week, a month, who knows, but however long it lasts there is no relief. There are only tears and sadness. There is only the soul sucking sense of the unfairness of it all.
I become useless, morbid, awaiting my own death with a combination of nervousness and anticipation. I cannot find a reason to look forward to the future.
I once told Bill that if anything happened to him I would be right behind him. As a result he hid all the shotgun shells. I have sense found them, but my faltering faith in God prevents me from doing anything that would put us at risk for not being reunited one day.
Each night I thank God for our years together, even though it is my personal opinion that we were somehow cheated out of many of them. I pray for strength, courage and faith so I can move forward in some small way. Some days I feel like he hears my prayers, some days I don't. Some days I feel brave, mostly I'm whistling in the dark, pretending it's going to be okay.
In my heart I know it's not okay. Not one damn thing about this is okay and it never will be. I'm killing time, treading water, and trying to slap on a happy face while I pray, please don't ask me about Bill. Please don't, I can't take it.
Every day is not horrible. Many days I am on autopilot. I get up early, have tea, get dressed and try to write, hoping for small chucks of time where I am not thinking about anything but my characters.
I go to the doctors, dentist, the store and some days I even laugh. I no longer sing. I still do my nails, my make-up and dick around with my hair. I have a girly-girl image to maintain and Bill would expect that.
I spend money I can't afford for five minutes of pleasure. That seems minimal, but believe me five minutes is a long time now.
Time is a strange thing. Each day feels like a year to get through, yet his death feels like it happened this morning. You can't trust time in any way. When you want it to hurry, it drags on endlessly, when you want to savor it, it's gone in a heartbeat. Time is a sneaky little prick who steals from you when you aren't looking.
This week I see my grief counselor. I never want to go, but always feel a bit better after. She's lovely and easy to talk to. With her I can say whatever I want and she gets it. She's a blessing, one I needed badly.
I don't mean to sound greedy, but I could use a few more. I would like to be blessed with a feeling of peace now and then. Maybe if I dragged myself to church for communion it would help, but again, I'm not feeling like God's best friend right now. I don't worry about being struck my lightening, I've done that and survived. It was easier than losing Bill by far.
There's always a joke going around that God doesn't give you more than you can handle and that is God must think I'm a bad-ass. I used to think it was funny when I saw that posted around. Not any more.
I am not a bad-ass. I am about as far from bad-ass as you can get. I'm a heart broken woman who lost the most precious gift she was ever given and has no hope of recovering it. I am a woman who's role in life no longer exists. Who am I?