My posts have sucked lately. I know. They aren't about anything. Just bullshit that happens around here. Not what really happens around here.
I am trying to be upbeat. Not so melancholy. Not so pissed off. I am trying to do what everyone tells me is 'appropriate' behaviour at this fucking time. "Keep your chin up. Don't wallow. Don't cry in front of the kids. Find things that make you happy." It reminds me of an article I read when I was about 13. It said that if you feign confidence and self-assurance, you'll one day begin to believe it. I am really trying. I take pictures of myself shelling peas and intend to write a post about the 'joy' it brings me to eat food from the garden...My former self found real satisfaction in this. I try to find ways to look at the various occurrances around the house with humour....It's just not funny. (Fuckles got ANOTHER goddammed batch of newly hatched chicks and just hatching ducklings a couple of weeks ago. It's just not funny anymore. It's sick.) I attempt to plan camping trips with the kids and our good friends...I find myself completely stressed over packing, printing off maps, grovery shopping and finding dog sitters (I am NOT taking that asshole, Fuckles, camping or anywhere else right now. In fact, I wonder if the vet will give me a 2-for-1 deal when I have Eli put down....Okay, I wouldn't really do that, but I do fantasize.) I end up imagining myself in the dark, damp quiet of the tent crying over the fact that Jeff isn't here with me and the kids and neither is Eli.
I feel consumed with anger. I want to lash out. I'm not talking the "Oh, poo! Am I ticked off!" anger. I am talking the sort of rage that makes you want to push sweet old ladies into traffic, kick soft, floppy eared puppies and scream obscenities at three year olds blowing bubbles. There is no rhyme or reason to this fury. I just want to reach out of my body and explode. Like a large burning blob of lava. Burning up everything in my path.
There is no specific target and no apparent reason for all this anger....Other than the loss of Jeff. The aging of my sweet Eli. The unresolved illness of my beloved Bub (grandpa). Life in general.
I know this wrath does not assist anything or anyone...but it's there and I can't chase it away...no matter how many pictures of garden vegetables I take.
I want to kick at those who suggest I behave a certain way. Do a specific thing. Take up a particular action. Who the fuck are they? How the fuck do they know? Why the fuck do they care?! I want to be left alone.....But I am so lonely.
My emotions are like the things you find in the garbage bin. Things that would never find themselves in the same location except when they are being thrown out. A cucumber peel. A toenail clipping. A snarled up ball of wire. A bra tag. They don't make sense when they're together. I don't make sense.
It seems that I am alone in this. I AM alone in this. There are so few young widows. Matt and I speak on the phone regularly and I come away feeling understood and almost hopeful that I can carry on conversations one day without trying to pretend to be okay...Just really actually being okay. For real. For me. Not for anyone's expectations of me or my actions. Knowing that someone can hear me and have no judgements because they do truly know what it is like is amazing. Everyone is an expert, it seems. It's easy to be an expert when you don't have to stare this reality in the face every waking and non-waking moment.
I hate everything. I don't want to deal with anything. I want to curl up in a ball and cry/sleep/die. I get the 'you're so strong.' I'm not. I've fallen into a million pieces but I have to stand here with the kids. I am a vacant void and I feel awful. If you had no one, you'd have to get up too. I don't have the fucking luxury of becoming comatose. There is no one else. I am alone.
I try to comfort myself with my memories of my love. I am told that I should put those thoughts out of my head. I don't want to! I want to remember him. I want to hold onto any tiny fragment of him that I can and cherish it. Protect it. As long as I have those memories, there is proof that he was. My kids can know him. I can feel loved. I can attempt to not feel so alone. I can giggle at things that he did or said. I can pretend that all isn't lost.
So, anyhow, here are the fucking peas. I am oh-so-happy that I can eat from my garden. It means so fucking much. It's all so fucking special.
Here's the story.
1 week ago