The entirely shitty day
Seven weeks ago my husband died. A week ago my grandmother
died. My life sucks.
I knew today was going to be hard. I knew I would need an
army of people by my side to get me through the day. Where was the army? They
certainly weren’t here. Instead, the army was out and about enjoying their
lives. Looking forward to a future I lost. Babies I would never have. Homes I
would never buy – at least not the ones I thought.
**********
I wrote these few sentences while I was in the heat of an
overpowering bout of emotion. In my slightly less clouded state, I can look
back and realize that I responded to reactions that night with way more
contention than was necessary. I can also defend my “army.” My friends. My
family. They all have lives – lives that simply cannot be put on hold to
babysit me every day. And if I really need something, I can ask. The answer is
sometimes no and I don’t like it, but I can ask and I can know that the people
who care about me will do everything they can to not say no, but all of this
rational thinking, though very much true, doesn’t really matter. Why? Because I
feel like I’ve been forgotten.
The invitations to “get out of the house” have all but
stopped. I don’t get text messages anywhere near as frequently. Other than
work, I don’t see adults. I can’t go anywhere because I have the kids 24/7. And
all I want is for the revolving door that was my house during the first few
weeks to swing open maybe just a little bit. It doesn’t have to be every day,
but a couple times a week would be nice. Hell, when Jon was here we had more
company than I have now.
You take for granted the value of adult interaction – that time
after lights out for the kids when you can talk about inappropriate things or
watch inappropriate shows and just know you’re not the only body in the room. I
can tolerate sleeping alone now. I’ve forgotten, for the most part, that I miss
sex. But I can’t get over the sense of solitude that sweeps over me each night
after I put my kids to bed. For the most part, I’m fine until that moment when
I sit down and realize I have no one to talk to. Watching TV helps, but it’s
not talking to me even if I talk to it. Writing is a great tool, but it’s still
so quiet other than the clacking of my keys.
Wine tastes better when it’s shared. Show’s are funnier when
someone is laughing along with you. And the day seems fuller when you have
someone to tell about it. Today I tried to talk about my day, but no one was
listening. Loneliness is bullshit.
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