There are days occasionally that pop up out of nowhere, like a new plant sprouting up over night, when I think, "Finally. Finally, I'm moving forward." And "Maybe, just maybe I can sing again." Or "Wow, I feel really good today."
And then days like yesterday happen. I wake consumed by the overwhelming feeling that something is wrong. I've forgotten something. I've missed something. What is it? What did I forget? Why do I feel like this? What's wrong with me? Then I close my eyes to focus and mentally let them travel across to the vast, empty expanse of the right side of my bed and think "He's still gone". And I know it's not over.
Then all I can hear is my heart beating. Can you hear it? It's so loud in this quiet he left me stranded in. What if my heart stops beating? Or what if it starts beating too fast? What will the kids do if they find me and have to call for help? What will the rest of their lives be like? What will they do without me? Will they be okay? Are they okay with me? Am I doing good enough for them? What's wrong with me? I don't want them to see me like this. Why can't I come out of this? Why can't I overcome this morbid way of thinking?
Honestly, I don't know how some people do it. Widows and Widowers who have lost their love, how do you return to work and routines and normal daily life? I am so overwhelmed, so lost some days that I can barely function. Some days it's all I can do to get the kids up and off to school and back home again. I drift around my apartment and see things I need to do and can't bring myself to do them. Some days, I can't even wash my hair. Some days all I want to do is sleep. Or cry. Or eat. Or moan. Or all of those combined.
Some days I don't want to leave my apartment. I don't want to talk to anyone, see anyone or do anything. I just want to hide. And some days I can't stand to be inside anymore. I have to get out or I'm going to go insane. And then when I get out I feel like I'm going to go insane. I want to run screaming out of my front door, grab whoever I see and shake them until they realize the world has ended.
His absence in my life has become the proverbial elephant in the room. It follows me wherever I go, in everything I do. It's there when I'm cleaning the apartment because he so loved to have a clean house, and when I'm cooking in the kitchen I think, "Would he like this meal?" It trails behind me when I check on the kids at night after they've fallen asleep. It nuzzles my hand when I'm cuddling with them during a movie and I think, Donnie would have loved this.
It looms over my shoulder as I stand in church unable to sing along during worship because I'm about to fall apart over the fact that he's not there singing a song I've heard him sing a million times before on the platform, or in the car on the way to church, or in the shower. It treads along with me in the grocery store and taunts me by leering at ingredients he used in recipes I can't replicate. And when I become immobilized in my living room on Lola, my sexy, red couch that he would have loved and never got to see, it plops itself down to rest, gazing up at me with its big, sad eyes while I stare blindly at the pictures on his piano.
The truth is, I know I have a hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11). It's not all dark and dreary every day, all day. It's not all doom and despair around the clock. But some days are. And sometimes it's more often than not. I have to realize I cannot just snap out of this. I can't make it all better. I can't make it go away. I can't ignore it. I have to feel these feelings. I have to face my fears. I have to ask my questions. And I have to miss my husband.
But when those rare days arrive so surprisingly like a seed bursting forth from the dark, damp dirt, I breathe in so deeply and exhale so blissfully and feel such sweet joy and tentatively smile a real smile. There's life in me yet. And it will grow stronger, over time.
