I’m certain that I’m not alone when I describe the confusion of widowhood. Not that many others in life don’t feel similar uncertainties as life changes happen. I guess it’s just that we, as widow/ers, have this sickening, stomach lurching rollercoaster thrown into the mix of our hearts and minds and souls as we face life alone.
The we we were before death.
The we we are after death.
B.D. A.D.
And the confusing brain fuck of it all.
I get so confused in and for and about myself, in a way I never did, never was, in my years with Chuck.
I don’t recognize myself any longer.
What happened to the me I was when Chuck was alive? I’m pretty sure I remember feeling strong and independent. Why am I suddenly and apparently unable to function as a separate human being?
What happened to my ambition?
What happened to my passion for life?
I used to be so organized. Or at least I had a semblance of keeping up with shit. Now? Don’t ask.
Why is the simplest task seemingly so unmanageable? I ask this even though I know the reason why.
What happened to my sexual self? Will I ever find it again? My sexual self ought not be dependent upon a lover being in my life, right? Except that it does. I was a sexually strong, confident, woman with Chuck. What the fuck happened?
In a Zen, put-together way, isn’t each individual supposed to be okay with being alone? How come I’m not? (another rhetorical question).
I know there are so many people who live alone in this world, never having known true love. Are they more okay being alone than I am, since I have known it? Is it truly better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?
I don’t fake how I feel in this grief and I never have. But most people, looking at me, talking to me, would never know the devastation of my heart and soul. How is it possible that it doesn’t show when I’m seriously not trying to hide it? (rhetorical question).
In the self that shows itself to the world, I’m getting shit done, and am very focused. Except when I’m not. Which can be always. Except that somehow shit gets done. Sometimes.
Am I two people at one time? Which fits with my Gemini nature. But if I’m not faking how I’m feeling, which is overwhelmed and dislocated, and I’m genuinely working towards a goal, (which I can’t seem to explain very well to anyone), how do those two things fit together?
How is it possible to not give a rat’s ass about life and yet, apparently, go about living it?
Is it okay to not want to live, yet be determined to make an epic life because I haven’t died yet, even though I was sure I would, so I’m going about making the epic happen because if I’m going to live, my life now must be as epic as it was for the 24 years I was with Chuck.
How can one be so unsure about everything, yet have some kind of damn faith that something bigger than you is at work? But you don’t really believe in God, so what the hell?
It’s so strange, looking out at the world, seeing the colors of it, and yet feel no color inside.
How the hell is it that I’m living in a frickin’ trailer, out in nature constantly, when I don’t even like nature? Damn bugs!
As time marches relentlessly on, I find myself becoming more and more attached to the memory of my husband, not less. And wanting to talk about him more, not less. And missing him more, not less.
How do any of us make any sense about any of this when it feels like nothing at all makes sense any longer, and how can it ever again?
Does Chuck, wherever he is, if he is somewhere…does he see me where I am?
Does this confusion ever end? Do we ever again feel confident about the world and about our place in the world?
And does that only really honestly truly happen if and when another person comes into our life to love us, to be loved by us?
Sigh….
