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.