Sad today, sadder than usual.

I think I am hitting a hard wall now I has less "adulting" to do, fewer immediate tasks, a lot of waiting.  The sad is waiting to catch me unawares, and it did a fine job this day.  I made a call, decided another didn't need to be made, put off Comcast some more.  And then I had nothing to do but chores.  Chores make me sad, because it feels unimportant now.  I know, but I am in the everything feels futile phase.

I watered the front lawn this morning, which was sad because the corner sprinkler the neighbors run over needs attention.  I have little idea of what to do. 

I am sad because the metal recycle bucket is full, and I don't know how I'll do the cash recycling. 

Breakfast made me sad.  I am very nearly finished with the raspberry jam; it is the very last jar of Larry's terrific jam from our berries.   The kitchen is making me sad because I got out the rice cereal and the marshmallows to make the treats Larry always made, but I just cannot. 

Lunch made me sad because it was Larry's ham slices with green beans and rice.  I think I've been avoiding meals like the ones we used to eat together.  I have a lot of green beans, I hope they don't end up as cans of sadness forever.

I got my new credit card from NFCU and that made me sad because Larry is no longer on the account.

Simon got Larry's patch jacket today, and sent a picture.  It fits him perfectly in every way, just as I knew it would.  A wizard's cloak must go to another wizard.  And that made me cry. 

I packed up a box for a friend with a jacket which did not make me sad, but I put in the t-shirt Larry got for me at a truckstop with his rewards points.  We were on a road trip to Lake Havasu.  That was our very last vacation.  The shirt made me sad and I never want to wear it. 

I finally wrote to Lonny.  Fucking sad.  So fucking sad.

Living in the clutches of grief.

My new roommate is Grief.  While emotional pain of loss is totally expected, the depths and shallows, ebb and flow, and unexpected jump scares of Grief is something you can read about, learn about, and talk about, but never know until Grief takes up intimate residence in the absence of a loved one. Grief is a physical presence.

I find Grief painful and exhausting.  I do not sleep well, Grief wakes me at add times and does not let my monkey brain rest.  Music is not soothing, it brings tears.  Grief has spoiled all my favorite songs.  I used to love End of the Line by the Traveling Wilburys, now that song is a cruel jest.  I wake too early in the morning, and am so sleepy in the afternoon I need a nap.  Some days that nap just segues into bedtime with only brief moments to feed cats, tidy up, read the mail, close curtains, do a few dishes.  Chores are done piecemeal, one step at a time.  It is a good day if I can tackle more than the basics.  What was routine now feels like I am chipping away at a mountain of granite. 

The mail.  Grief resides in my mailbox every day.

I have headaches.  My eyes get irritated from tearing up, my nose and throat raw from snuffling, from coughing and moaning aloud.  The muscles in my neck and shoulders remain knotted.  My back aches.  I cannot breathe freely and fully.  A hot bath is little relief, the drain isn't working right and I can't ask Larry to fix it.

Grief has stolen my appetite.  I eat, I try to use up what is in the house, which is a lot of food.  While I am queasy, generally I don't have the gut distress I associated with being tense.  My stomach and bowels simply do not care and have given up.  Balanced meals do not appeal, a protein bar or shake and coffee will do.  Hydration makes me sad, really, because all my good water bottles are covered with Burning Man stickers and wrist bands.

I wear a caul of irritation and stress over my head, swirling down my shoulders, arms, and back.  Like a veil, I can feel the presence like gauze and black lace blocking light and joy and comfort.

Sometimes Grief takes a stroll around the block, I am okay, I do things, I breathe.  Then like a bad horror film, Grief jumps out of a drawer, from behind the closet door, from a photo or piece of clothing or scrap of paper.  Fuck you, Grief. 

I know this is temporary, but damn, I am weary.  

Solitude is one thing, loneliness, a different beast altogether.

I am used to solitude; I have been all my life. I was a solitary child, a reader of books and a contented day dreamer.  All the years Larry and I were married, the Navy and his work as a driver meant days apart. I was always good knowing he would return.  He was in my heart if not my arms.  I kept house, I did the laundry, made the meals, organized the finances, cuddled the cats.  Home was ready and waiting for him.  When he was home, we'd run errands together, a commissary run was a date, we'd go to lunch or brunch, we'd run up the canyon now and then.  When he'd work in the yard, I could hear his radio and his clatter, and he'd come in to drag me out to see his latest projects, often meant for my pleasure or convenience. Sunday evenings were often fire practice, and we'd chat or listen to music on the drive.  We would honeymoon two or three times a year to make up for those first two years apart.  We were friends.

And now, the house is big and quiet.  I still have cats to cuddle and feed.  I still clean, but it doesn't seem to matter as much and there is no deadline.  I cook, but only for myself.  I am slowly unearthing items in the freezer meant for hearty meals he enjoyed.  There's a damn turkey too.  Right now I am eating the ham he got at Carl's SuperSaver for some ridiculous price and sliced up to make sandwiches for his lunch.  Thick slices, one is a meal for me, and there's two packs he made up.  I weep.  I am on the very last jar of the jam he made.

I do laundry, but there's no rush.  I take out the trash, right now the cans fill quickly because I am sorting out a ton of crap, but that will slow to a trickle.  I am using only the top rack of the dishwasher.  I still hang two towels on the the towel rack.  I am dismayed at the amount of paper plates and bowls he had on the truck.  Whatever shall I do?  Have picnics?

I browse Amazon, wondering if the higher prices are worth not having to ask or pay for rides.  People want to help me, but sharing the shopping experience is hard. Desi takes me to the commissary, and she knows how to give me my space, and how to be present when I need her to be.  She is not Larry though.  I pretty much have quit clipping coupons; I eat different things when left to my own devices.  I skipped this Friday's free download from Smith's; Hormel Compleats were entirely his thing.

You'd think nights would be worst, but no, it is the middle of the day, when his presence lingers in every room. In the morning, when I only make two cups of coffee instead of a full pot.  When the mail comes in, addressed to him.  The Tandy Leather flyer, reminding me I probably won't ever go there again.  The cans of sparkling water and weird sodas in the fridge from the BDO, another shopping destination which was on the "errands date" rotation.  The Rumbi Grill two for one ads; we went to Rumbi's a lot.  The No Frills Diner punch card.

When I want to pick up the phone and tell him how stupid hard the paperwork is, how frustrated I am, how the guy came and sprayed the yellow jacket ground nests and gave me a military discount.

Being alone never bothered me, it is that no matter how much company I have, or help from friends I get, I will ultimately never stop being alone when all is said and done.  Being alone forever is much lonelier than being alone for hours, or days, or weeks.  I know in an abstract way that it will get better, but being without Larry is not what I consider better in the slightest.  

Widowhood, into the unknown

This is so damn difficult. 

I don't even know if I can digest it all to regurgitate here.  Paperwork.  So much paperwork.  Anything with his name attached must be changed over to just mine.  The house, the insurances, the phone, banking, our timeshare points. At least the utilities are in my name.  Life insurance, 401K, VA, DFAS, DEERS, SS.  I know there's more, but the brain goes numb.  His clothes, his shoes.  Throw out the underwear and the toothbrush.  Cancel future doctor's appointments.  Look at his leatherworking stuff, his candlemaking, his soldering station in my living room, his jam and crispy treat making stuff.  His booze.  His jackets and hats by the back door.  The fucking garage.  The Harley, the broken scooter, the two four wheeled bikes which are too heavy for me alone.  His firewood, his metal recycling.  His tools. 

Ah, his hammocks.

And his chores, finding friends or paid professionals for the outdoor stuff beyond my physical abilities.  The house repairs and upgrades we neglected.  Who will want to put up Christmas lights on the roof?  Who can run the big ass snowblower, or shovel?

Figuring out the budget.  Figuring out how much I eat by myself.  That's not much.  Bed picnics and eating standing up in the kitchen.  Laundry is different now.  Cancelled all his TV shows set to record.  Put away his lunch cooler and his water bottles.

Trying to have ready answers when people ask what I need.  I know, but I don't always know when asked.  I need Larry.