Christmases without Greg, that is.

Given my long-lived female relatives, I know I can expect to see the age of 90 if not 100 years old. (Longevity seems to be a heritable trait in my family … as does early widowhood.)

Which means 48 more Christmases to endure even with the more conservative estimate….

…and I don’t want to do another single one, leave alone another 48 or more.

.
.
.
.

…and that’s where my head is. Not pretty, and I know I should pull myself together because … well …
I didn’t die ….

People who don’t know me, or who don’t have a basic grasp of psychology will tell me it doesn’t help to keep thinking this way.

… but it does…

If there is one thing I have learnt in this mess that is widowhood: grief will always out.

Better to brood and cry and moan every so often, than to button it down, don’t think those dark thoughts. …and have it hit you full force at the most inappropriate times at a later date.

So, I’ll spend a bit of time feeling sad and sorry for myself. I’ll brood about having to live for so much longer without my man. I’ll cry in the shower and I’ll swear a lot.

But after that, I’ll feel OK again and keep plodding on. I’ll keep moving forward and not think about having to keep living long after my love died.

…and I won’t beat myself up about not taking it all on the chin ALL the time. I’ll allow myself to have a little wallow in grief and self pity every so often without feeling guilty.

So you’ll excuse me while I go play some sad songs and have a little cry …. I’ll feel better for it tomorrow, I promise.