Bleak

I do not know why this weekend is proving to be so difficult for me.  It is sunny.  I have a nice, long To Do List that I created during the week: 39 items on the list, 15 done . . . though I constantly add to it, so what is accurate now may not be accurate this evening.  It’s not like there is not stuff for me to be working on.  I also have books to read and friends and family who are just a phone call away.  Lovely Gull Lake, where Ron and I used to sit and read and swim and feel the wind coming off the water, is just a short drive from my house.  Why, then, am I finding it impossible to do any of this stuff today?

I spent the bulk of yesterday and today crying.  I cried myself into a nap sleep today.  I cannot seem to do anything without crying.  Sitting at the computer = crying.  Listening to music = crying.  Watching Netflix = crying.  Reading = distracted, irrational thoughts that lead to anxiety and then crying.  Showering = crying.  Driving = crying.  Trying to rearrange rooms or clean the house = crying.  Pretty much everything = crying.

If crying is a therapeutic release, I ought to be feeling better now, right?  Well, I am not.  I just feel bad.  Over and over again, I am sad and mad and hurt and hopeless.  Every time I wake up, it is coming to the realization all over again that Ron is dead and I am somehow expected to go on breathing without him.

I am still attending to the normal things that need to be done.  I am too responsible not to.  Yesterday, I mowed the lawn.  Today, I have laundry out on the clothes line drying in the heat.  I take my dogs for a walk in the mornings before it gets too warm.  I am eating at least one meal per day.  I haven’t given up or stopped participating.  I am just having a hard time doing anything other than cry and miss Ron.  And I mostly don’t like to go out in public or be around other people because it interferes with those two activities.

When I have stupid thoughts and start to question everything, I go back and read the emails we sent each other early on in the relationship.  Within a few emails, it becomes apparent that we both knew we were made for each other, from the get-go, a few weeks/months into the relationship, three years ago.  The emails are full of mushy stuff that would normally make me want to puke, except that I felt that love.  I mean, I really felt it . . . and it was good, not gross.  Over and over again, Ron tells me how I am “the one” and is making plans to try to move down here to live “a quiet, simple life” life with me.  He tells me how he wants to grow old with me, wants to be with me until his last breath . . . well, he got the latter part of that wish, I guess.  But I am left here wanting the rest, damn it!  Where is our quiet, simple life?  Where is growing old together?  Where are the many years to make memories and travel and meet all of one another’s friends and learn all there is to know about one another?  Where is being with each other for the rest of our lives?

When I read things we wrote to each other or look at pictures, I know how true our love really was.  All the doubts and crazy pictures/assumptions in my head vanish . . . then I am just left the immense sadness of it all.  It is so sad.  It is so unfair.  I feel so left behind.  I just want to go wherever Ron is.  But . . . I can’t . . . because I got shit to do and people counting on me to live through this.  Although why they would want me to live through so much pain, I cannot imagine.  Like many a client I’ve encountered, I have come to believe that if people truly knew how I bad felt, they would not expect me to just keep on trucking.  They would say, “OK, Heather.  It’s fine.  I see now that you should just give up.”  And they would pat me on the back and wish me well on my journey to see Ron.

Of course I am being sarcastic, because I know no one would say that. 

I know the thoughts and feelings I am having are quite normal.  But, that does not make them any less painful.  And just because I have a degree and background working in mental health does not make me any better at coping with this loss than anyone else.  Believe me when I say I am just as completely fucked up over it as anyone else would or could be.

Every day, I try to make plans for some kind of face-to-face contact with a human. 

Friday, Ron’s brother and sister came down to visit, have lunch, and go through his belongings so that they could take home things that I don’t need or want here.  It was an emotional process and tedious, too, as Ron is quite famous for being a bit of a packrat and not always having the best organizational skills.  We shared some laughs and some memories and were there for each other as much as we all could be.  When they left, I felt a mixture of relief at having done that task as well as emptiness that all of these parts of Ron (mostly parts of Ron from before I knew him/stuff that doesn’t hold a strong connection for me, but might for someone else) were gone. 

Yesterday, I did go to Gull Lake for a few hours after my lawn mowing.  I met up with friends Kara and Dan, who brought their paddle boards.  I talked.  They listened.  I tried to listen when they talked (though my listening skills are total crap now, since I can barely bring myself to care about my own sad, little life, let alone what’s going on in anyone else’s).  I went out on the lake with Kara for a bit, but did not feel up to the challenge of standing on the board only to be knocked over by the little waves, so, I just sat and paddled.  It was peaceful . . . yet still my heart hurt.  And I swam out and tread water for awhile, like I always do, but even treading, I cried.  I am just a sad sack, no matter the activity.

Today, a friend was to stop by on his way home from a weekend of National Guard drill.  He doesn’t like me to be sad and tends to want to fix it (no one can fix it – it just is sad).  So, I was wondering how it would go, but thinking that at least it would be someone I have to be accountable toward.  However, his plans changed.  So, for today, I am alone in the country without seeing a single living soul.  Yep.  

Tomorrow, I return to work after four months off.  As much as I am nervous about it, I know it will be good for me.  It gives me someplace I have to be every day.  More accountability. 

I will be returning with poison ivy on my face.  It’s not the worst I’ve had it there, but still . . . super awesome [sarcasm font] to have a red, itchy, puffy, oozy cheek on the first day back.  At this point, though, a little poison ivy truly is the least of my suffering.  How's that for perspective?