Lost in Widow Land Week 22

Each morning, as quick as the coffee’s made and the dogs are fed, I go online to check the widows’ support group to find out how everybody is doing. I’ve only known them online for a few weeks, but I want them to be well. The thing about a support group is that when I read a sad story, I feel sorry for that person. In that point of time, when I sorry for you, my pain is less. I wonder what brain chemicals are released on that one.  Ah, yes, misery loves company endorphin trigger.  

The bones of our spouses are like chum in the waters we navigate looking for safe harbor and maybe companionship. Cast overboard, our heads bob, treading water, we drift; cursing in the dark. Our eyes search for a lighthouse. A flicker, a beam so sweet so brief, but we get no relief. Will this be our demise or will we continue living our lives?

If you see me during the day, you’ll never know you’re looking at a bombed out shell, I go through the motions quite well, lately I haven’t even told anyone to go to hell. Anger you see is a huge part of this deal for me. We put our lives together like a puzzle, we fit. Did I not enjoy the now, planning for tomorrow? The woulda, coulda, shoulda’s will get me if I let them. Bottom line is that God was the only one with control.

My honey and me, we made each other so happy. We were huggy and lovey dovey til death did us part, the end. Damn, that’s hard to say.

Last week was sensory overload with people staying here. A week of love’s first bloom, flirting and giggling school kids blush, the rapture made me feel like a snow globe in the sun.

This week’s depression could be expected, alone again is so hard to be. The week before Christmas, a holiday I never much liked except for the story of Jesus, with money that doesn’t go far enough, I’m not buying anything; all I can think about is what I’ve lost. I’m not in a giving mood, bah, humbug.

People want me to be well, they love the stories we tell, a laugh, a smile, a tender moment; I’m on my way, alone again. Can I blame them for not tuning in to my pain, not honoring my loss; they have plenty pain of their own. The contract with life states clearly, constant problems or threats shall affirm one’s status as alive. How we handle it says everything about who we are.

Honoring my feelings I’m doing as much or as little as I can handle each day. When I violate that caveat, jitters, tears, f---ing high anxiety ensues.  It’s like God is this dog trainer zapping my collar when I give a wrong answer. We all grow as trainers, so I’d like to put in my request for positive motion training only from now on, please, as long as it is Christmas and all, no lottery, just take it easy with me. Come on, please.