Nearly a month since the death of my husband, but every day seems like a year. I've tried my old methods of self-soothing, but they aren't working and they're self-destructive anyway. Food isn't doing it - I even bought a roll of chocolate chip cookie dough and ate it. Haven't done that in over a decade, maybe two. Not a good thing for a type-2 diabetic to do. It tasted good, but not as good as I remember, and it didn't help. I've been shopping - almost couldn't make myself stop - and it hasn't helped. All I can think is that he won't be here to see the clothes on me or watch the movies. Or gripe that I didn't need to buy that yarn, I have too much yarn. Plus I've got a LOT of medical bills I now have to pay off. Reading and watching TV do help. They take me away from myself.
The only thing left is writing. If this fails me I don't know what to try next. Therapy? A bereavement support group? I'm really not a people-person, and now without my husband to make me go out and do things, I've discovered that I'm good for one outing a day, and had better get everything done during that outing because when I go home, I will stay there.
No children, no siblings, and my 90-year-old mother is also dying. Dad died in 1983. I have some elderly aunts and uncles left, and a lot of cousins I haven't seen in years, if not decades. Thank God for friends! And the lovely people at church! I've arranged my work schedule, thanks to my wonderful boss, so I can go to the Prayer Shawl Knitting Group at church again. And I'm trying another knitting group on Saturdays. My writing group meets on alternate Fridays. Meeting a friend for an occasional meal out or trip to the movies, zoo, or whatever will also keep me from becoming a complete hermit.
I think I'll start writing my memoirs on this blog. They won't be anything memorable, I'm afraid. I've been a dull person with quite an ordinary life. But it'll give me a topic to work on here, and keep me writing when I'm not working on one of my novels to self-publish. And that gives me a title, from Emily Dickinson. "I'm Nobody."
Monday, August 24, 2015
Monday, August 10, 2015
Alone versus lonely
I grew up an only child, but I didn't have a problem with it. I've always been good at entertaining myself. I lived alone from the time I got my first apartment in my late 20s until my future husband moved in with me at age 50. Never felt scared at home alone, never felt lonely.
My husband of 10 years (we were together 12) passed away August 2, 2015. I have now spent 1 week as a widow. Frankly, in between crying jags, I can't believe he's gone. He had been ill, but he kept exactly how ill he actually was from me.
My 90-year-old frail Mom had a friend drive her up to spend the week with me, and my sister from another mother Diane drove down from Denver. They both left yesterday at about noon. Which is about the same time my husband died one week earlier. I'm the sort that toughs things out. I turned off my phone and endured my first afternoon alone.
It was endure, let me tell you. Thank God for the cats! If I had been the only living thing in this little house I'd have gone nuts. It was one damn long afternoon. This morning, I got up and puttered around, had breakfast, washed the dishes, folded some laundry - plenty more of that to do as I hadn't done it for a couple weeks - and sat down to write. In the living room. I had been writing in the kitchen because Uchol had to have the TV playing nearly constantly, and I can't write if there's anybody talking or any music on. White noise is OK. I've planned some errands for this afternoon. Tomorrow I go back to work and will begin to establish my new routines.
I've got a lot of friends that I never had time to visit with, and some hobbies I never had time to pursue. Except for feeling that my heart is a ball of aching lead, I think I'll be okay.
My husband of 10 years (we were together 12) passed away August 2, 2015. I have now spent 1 week as a widow. Frankly, in between crying jags, I can't believe he's gone. He had been ill, but he kept exactly how ill he actually was from me.
My 90-year-old frail Mom had a friend drive her up to spend the week with me, and my sister from another mother Diane drove down from Denver. They both left yesterday at about noon. Which is about the same time my husband died one week earlier. I'm the sort that toughs things out. I turned off my phone and endured my first afternoon alone.
It was endure, let me tell you. Thank God for the cats! If I had been the only living thing in this little house I'd have gone nuts. It was one damn long afternoon. This morning, I got up and puttered around, had breakfast, washed the dishes, folded some laundry - plenty more of that to do as I hadn't done it for a couple weeks - and sat down to write. In the living room. I had been writing in the kitchen because Uchol had to have the TV playing nearly constantly, and I can't write if there's anybody talking or any music on. White noise is OK. I've planned some errands for this afternoon. Tomorrow I go back to work and will begin to establish my new routines.
I've got a lot of friends that I never had time to visit with, and some hobbies I never had time to pursue. Except for feeling that my heart is a ball of aching lead, I think I'll be okay.
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