Today I was supposed to go to Infinite Possibilities. I cannot. I always went with Larry, it was always a date. I do not want to go alone. I do want to see people, but I haven't the strength to do it in that context.
I sewed the lace feathers on my Odin hat while watching Thor Ragnarok. I put clean sheets on the bed. I paid the last medical bill for Larry's last stay. $150 co-pay on a bill of over $46K. Thank you, honey, for working so hard in the Navy so we have excellent healthcare. I pulled Larry's gloves and motorcycle gauntlets and beanies out of the scarf drawer. Dammit. I took the unopened Walking Dead DVDs downstairs; he will never see them. I washed my hair with his shampoo, and can hardly wait until it is gone. It is good for my hair, but I dislike the scent. I'm too cheap to toss it. So there's that.
Yesterday Desi took me on errands, I got a flu shot (and cried, I was always with Larry), mailed a package (Larry's Chewie onesie he never got to wear), and went to the commissary. I did not cry at the commissary for once. And then Michael's, where I did not cry, just got a little choked up. Called Massage Envy to unfreeze my membership, and had a good cry because the girl helping me remembered Larry and his bowties, and how wonderful he was.
I need to go outside to do things. I do not want to. I might not. I need to get things ready for wet cold weather. Fuck it.
This is a new crying phase. He is not coming back, he is not on the road, or on deployment. He is gone. He won't carry the laundry up or refill the litter jug. He won't be arranging things endlessly outside. I don't need to be sure the sheets and blankets are on his side evenly. I can leave crap sitting around and he isn't here to kvetch at me. I don't have to cook dinner, I can have yogurt. He isn't here to take me on drives and complain we have too much to do. No more Saturday morning sex. We always had morning sex on weekends and turned on the TV to the classic rock music station. I can't turn on that station now.
I hate this part. Weeping way too much becomes physically painful and upsets my tummy. I cannot breathe. I know, it gets better. I just really, really hate the process. I hate Bad Days.
I sewed the lace feathers on my Odin hat while watching Thor Ragnarok. I put clean sheets on the bed. I paid the last medical bill for Larry's last stay. $150 co-pay on a bill of over $46K. Thank you, honey, for working so hard in the Navy so we have excellent healthcare. I pulled Larry's gloves and motorcycle gauntlets and beanies out of the scarf drawer. Dammit. I took the unopened Walking Dead DVDs downstairs; he will never see them. I washed my hair with his shampoo, and can hardly wait until it is gone. It is good for my hair, but I dislike the scent. I'm too cheap to toss it. So there's that.
Yesterday Desi took me on errands, I got a flu shot (and cried, I was always with Larry), mailed a package (Larry's Chewie onesie he never got to wear), and went to the commissary. I did not cry at the commissary for once. And then Michael's, where I did not cry, just got a little choked up. Called Massage Envy to unfreeze my membership, and had a good cry because the girl helping me remembered Larry and his bowties, and how wonderful he was.
I need to go outside to do things. I do not want to. I might not. I need to get things ready for wet cold weather. Fuck it.
This is a new crying phase. He is not coming back, he is not on the road, or on deployment. He is gone. He won't carry the laundry up or refill the litter jug. He won't be arranging things endlessly outside. I don't need to be sure the sheets and blankets are on his side evenly. I can leave crap sitting around and he isn't here to kvetch at me. I don't have to cook dinner, I can have yogurt. He isn't here to take me on drives and complain we have too much to do. No more Saturday morning sex. We always had morning sex on weekends and turned on the TV to the classic rock music station. I can't turn on that station now.
I hate this part. Weeping way too much becomes physically painful and upsets my tummy. I cannot breathe. I know, it gets better. I just really, really hate the process. I hate Bad Days.
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