Idle Thoughts Upon the Exit of 2017~

I’m so fucking relieved to say goodbye to 2017.
Our daughter told me that 2017 was as hard for her, harder in some ways, than the year right after her dad died.
It was harder for me, too, not for any one reason in particular, really. Maybe because our entire world seems on edge. Also, because my husband is dead.  Almost forgot that.
I’ve always told our kids that, no matter the state of the world, life has always managed to continue on, and even improve in some ways. I can’t say that as easily any longer. Life feels very threatening in every way this past year.
When I spoke to our oldest son about this, he agreed and said well, we might not have to even think about any of this anymore in the new year because North Korea might bomb us and the world will end anyways.
Why do I find that strangely comforting?
Does anyone else in the widowhood feel the same, or a similar, lack of enthusiasm for life?
I’m off the road for a few months, staying with my daughter. So much shit to get done.
Getting an income is crucial. Finances for me, like so many of us, are precarious since Chuck died.
Lots of my sentences end with that phrase, don’t they? Since Chuck died…
I hate Christmas. I know…how bah, humbug of me, but there you go. I wasn’t big on it when Chuck was alive…neither was he…but I’m practically Jehovah Witness about it now. I’m good with others celebrating it, of course, and I’ll join in with our kids with it, but I’m so freaking glad when it’s over. It takes energy I really don’t have, to get through it.
I genuinely believe that my Love life is a thing of the past. Love, sex, feeling cherished…all that. I’ll be alone until I die. Of course, if I express that thought aloud to people, they immediately warn me not to think that way or I really will be alone forever.  I don’t believe that for a second. As a single parent, after my divorce, I was firmly convinced I’d be alone for the rest of my life; what man would take on a woman with 3 kids? And then I met Chuck.                                                                                                                                       The thing is, I’m 60 in a few months, I feel as old as Methuselah, and I think I’ve had my Love story for my life. And I don’t know that we get more than one. And even if I do meet someone, I will absolutely compare him to Chuck…duh. Honestly, the more I see the so called men out in the world, how sloppy they are in appearance, how they carry themselves, how they speak…no thank you. Once again, I don’t believe that me believing this has any bearing on whether or not I’ll ever meet a decent, loving, confident, romantic, passionate, well-groomed man again. It happens or it doesn’t. I had it once, at least.
Do you ever want to respond to those who offer pithy comments to you about how you’re widowing, what you’re doing, yadda, yadda, yadda, with…whatever! Like a teenager. Whatevs, bitches.
I’m tired. Tired and lonely and empty. And isn’t that frickin’ pathetic?
I also don’t care what Chuck would want for me. Of frickin’ course he’d want me to be happy, blah, blah, blah. That has no bearing on anything, because, oh, that’s right…he’s dead. He isn’t the one left behind to figure all of this out. So…yeah. Though I’ll be more than happy to argue it all out with him if he’d just come back to me.
My new year begins each year on April 21, the anniversary of Chuck’s death. Who knew that I could control time, right? And yet, I’ve changed when my new year begins! Not on the calendar date 2018, but months later. I am all powerful! It just shows that the concept of time is just that…a concept agreed upon by thousands of people that, on the stroke of midnight on Dec 31, the year changes.  Nope, not for me. April 21, world…that’s my new year.
Random thoughts, indeed, as 2017 becomes 2018~


Rapid-Fire at 3 in the Morning~

The thoughts that scatter through my brain like tracer bullets when I need desperately to sleep.  Not so that I can be rested because that’s kind of not happening, but so I can be unconscious and not as aware of the emotional pain.  Ahh..well….

I’m having a moment of happiness, finally.  Happy that Christmas is finally done and gone for the year.  Handsome Husband and I haven’t even celebrated Christmas for years unless we happened to be with family at any particular time.  Every day together was a gift to us and once the kids left home it held no significance to us.  Neither of us are (were) Christian and we didn’t like the hassle and memory-making meant more to us than tangible gifts.   The day itself wasn’t loaded because every day for me is emotionally loaded with missing him from my life.  And yet…all the hoopla and bells and whistles brought it even more into focus for me.  Now that it’s over I can return to the dull pain of knowing he’s gone.

Recently someone castigated me, upon reading my Thanksgiving post referencing my lack of gratitude and not wanting to read any more listings of how and why people were thankful during that time (which is wonderful and thank god people are thankful and don’t take things for granted but I was over it), that I need to learn to have gratitude.   That I should be thanking god on bended knee that I had this lovely man in my life to love me for the years that he did, that he and I had the opportunity to adventure together as we did, and many people don’t have any of that, ever, and maybe I should be volunteering with cancer patients.  Huh.  So, where is it written that because, yes, I was graced with him and our adventures, I don’t have the right to grieve deeply?   With all due respect to anyone who has never experienced such love as I had (have) with Handsome Husband, and no, I’m not lording it over anyone because believe me, I had a very, very bad first marriage with a man who abused me and I knew what not having love felt like and then found real love with a handsome man who was my true knight.  I know what love felt like, I felt him touch me and hug me and kiss me and hold my hand and support me and smile at me and wink at me and have that life and now, not have that life.  I know I was blessed to have him and I’m so fucking grateful to have had him in my life that I want to throw up at not having him any longer.  So, how about we just let people have their grief and not make a judgement on it?  How about that?  And volunteer with cancer patients?  I wouldn’t think of it right now, out of deference to them, and my knowledge of the grieving process.  You want to see a meltdown on my part?  Put me in a room with cancer patients and their families and see a puddle on the floor where I used to stand.   Cancer survivors elicit the same reaction from me, simply because I can’t contain my disbelief that they’re still alive and, too, because the joy I feel at their survivorship is so intense, both for them and those who love them.

My PinkMagic car/T@b trailer.  1450324_587365487985056_1200230853_n Super cute.  This new life on the road.  Looks adventurous, doesn’t it?  I’m currently in Key West.  It’s warm and summer-like.  I’m meeting new people all the time, hearing their stories as they hear mine.  I interact with them.  I laugh.  I put makeup on in the morning.  My clothes are decent.  I look so fucking normal on the outside.  Bells and whistles.  You know what’s happening inside of me while I’m talking to you?  While I’m looking normal?  This.  Except more intense.  24/7.78363While I’m walking and talking and looking at you, and driving and so-called adventuring, all I’m seeing is my husband not here.  All I’m thinking is, what the hell happened to him?  To my life?  To us?  How is it that I’m here and he isn’t?

All of this life I’d give up in a New York minute.  I have no idea what that means in actuality but I’m assuming it means more than a usual minute measurement.   In less than a second, without a second thought, I’d walk away from this life I’m creating for myself, if I could see Handsome Husband holding out his hand to me.  I don’t care about this life.  I think I’m supposed to care and there’s some vague guilt that I don’t feel guilty about not caring but I don’t even seriously have the energy to feel guilty about not feeling guilty about not caring (my Catholic upbringing compels me to feel guilt in some measure about most anything.  Old habits die hard).

I’m doing everything I can to get to where I suppose I need to be and, if I’m going to continue living and it appears I am because I haven’t died yet, want to be, which is joyous and happy again though I have no real belief that I’ll ever feel those emotions in the same way I used to feel them.  How realistic would that be, after this?   But I acknowledge that at some point I’ll more than likely feel engaged in life again.

Right now, this life I’m living?  So surreal that even the surreal is surreal to me.  I’m layered in disbelief that he isn’t at my side.  I’m layered in pain that he isn’t driving our car, that we aren’t talking and loving and adventuring together.

That he’s, oh my god.  Gone.