Friday, November 26, 2010

Oh shut up

I'm telling ya, I shouldn't allow myself to post when I'm feeling good.

I swear, it's almost like I don't even remember writing that last post. I don't know who the cocky twit is who wrote it but right now I want to bitch slap her.

No lie, it seems like almost as soon as I finished publicly preening over how BEAU-tifully I was doing, I crashed. The whole week since has been one of the hardest yet. In fact, I'm starting to see signs that it's not just yer common, garden variety grieving going on... it may be time to (gulp!) tweak the meds.

I HATE having to admit that, but I am grateful as all hell that I've had enough experience to know when it's beyond my control and it's time to call in the experts.

I realized recently that December 2010 marks TEN YEARS since I first started on anti-depressants. I remember still what a huge relief it was, after twenty years of toughing out the "dark times" curled up in a ball on the couch, rolling my eyes and snapping at the Ex like a hormonal tortoise, hollering at Lovely Daughter to climb a flight of stairs to bring me the TV remote that was ten feet away from me, and asking the doc to test my thyroid "just one more time" only to see the results come back normal again, to have those blue pills make the life-sucking cloud of Dementors* lift and fade for good.

I was so grateful to just feel normal. It was kind of pathetic, really.

*(Sorry for the gratuitous Harry Potter ref, I'm gearing up for Deathly Hallows. Squee!)

Sure, I've stepped in puddles of dark since, but they've been brief and shallow. The last one big enough register was four years ago -- almost exactly, oddly enough -- around the end of my 26-year marriage. I changed meds for a few months, but then I met Mr. B and it no longer seemed to be an issue, IYKWIM. Nothing will get your brain chemicals right faster than a bucketful of burning love. That's some good shit, mon.

Funny thing is, it hadn't occurred to me that I might run into trouble this time. I'm that used to being normal, and although I'm proud of that, WTF was I thinking? This particular Fucking Growth Opportunity is a gobazillionity times harder than the divorce, due to the divorce lacking an actual death. Of course my neurotransmitter tanks would be running completely dry by now. Duh. What a maroon.

If I want to have any chance of keeping the dirty dishes from piling up on the floor and Young Son fed on something other than Blue Box and grilled cheese sandwiches through the winter (Not lyin'. Ask Lovely Daughter about her childhood comfort foods) I figure I have two choices: I can do it "naturally" -- hit the dating sites hard, find someone to stuff in the Mr. B-shaped hole, and hope for the magic to strike twice -- or I can go to a professional and get hooked up. With the right meds, not guys.

I think this time I'll go pro. Bound to be much easier in the long run. This last round of the Dating Game had a pretty brutal finale.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

U'r doing it wrong

Everyone keeps telling me there are no rules for grieving, but I still feel like I'm doing it wrong.

It's only been just shy of two months since Mr. B died, and I am (mostly) back in one piece. The events of the last five months have faded, almost to the point of seeming unreal.

I keep poking myself (mentally, you pervs) searching for signs that I'm kidding myself, and that there's still a big wad of something festering inside that I haven't gotten to yet.

I'm not finding it.

I keep coming to the conclusion that I have reached a pretty good perspective on my relationship with Mr. B, the good and not-so-much. I am at peace (most of the time) with the fact that the rest of my life is not going to go the way I thought. How one phone call in June changed everything.

Oh, I still have bad days, but they don't hurt as bad or last as long. Sometimes I still feel gypped, but it no longer comes with the side order of blinding rage.

I feel disloyal admitting that I'm doing OK. It hasn't even been two months, for fuck's sake! I should be in more pain. Shouldn't I still be in more pain? I keep looking but it's not there.

What's worse, I keep going back to the dating site (not this time). I find myself looking for profiles that show originality and wit (and, I admit, decent grammar). It's quite a challenge, believe me, but that's a post for another day. At first I really was looking for Mr. B, but now I find myself wondering what some of these guys are really like. Still don't have a desire to act on it, but is it really OK to look?

I dunno. It doesn't seem right, somehow. But that doesn't seem to stop me.

It's really hard for me to write this because so many of my twelves of readers know me personally and most of the rest knew Mr. B, but I feel I need to be honest about this process, 'cause otherwise, what's the point?

I still feel like I'm doing it wrong, but I can't figure out how to do it "right" and still be true to myself.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

10 months, 2 weeks, 2 days

I can't even believe that was just one year ago. Yeah, as you might suspect, today kinda sucks. Luckily I had enough foresight to take off work.

I'd originally thought I'd want to spend today looking at wedding photos and memorabilia, but the truth is I can barely stand even thinking about our trip to Vegas. I'd even considered getting a tattoo today but I don't think that's going to happen. As much as I'd like to believe otherwise, I am not exactly the Queen of Acting Out, or even the Duchess of Impulsive Decisions. Oh well. It would have been a grand gesture, though.

Instead, I'll be leaving the house shortly and running errands most of today. Later on I'm meeting Pal P for dinner. Then I'll pick up Young Son, come home, and spend the remnant of the evening staring at something stupid on the Teevee. Way to commemorate the occasion, eh?

Sometime in the next few days I'll probably pack up The Shrine, a bulletin board over the sideboard in the dining room where I've been posting all the cards and letters I've received. I may even pack up the remaining wedding memorabilia (the Yay! flags and origami flowers) that has (have? has?) been sitting on my bedroom dresser for a year. No idea what I'm going to do with my dress -- there's no way I can ever wear is again and looking at it in my closet does not make me happy. And his suit was pretty expensive. I can't imagine getting rid of it but it doesn't make sense to keep it, either.

The worst thing, though, is that sometime last weekend between 10 am Friday and 10 am Saturday I lost Mr. B's wedding band. I'd been wearing it on my thumb since I sent him off with the funeral home guys. I'd thought of putting it away today, since it was a little loose and kept threatening to slip off, but instead it's disappeared. I'm trying to be a good sport about it, telling myself that Mr. B just wanted it back, but it doesn't always work.

We were married for ten months, two weeks, and two days. I keep trying but there's no way I can convince myself I'm OK with that.

To summarize: It sucks. It all sucks.

(I wonder how many times I've used that word since June? Probably a lot.)

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Wherein things get a little weird

I tried. I cut myself all sorts of slack, removed all expectations, and I still couldn't do it. I really hate-hate-hate to quit, but I'm bailing on this year's NaNoWriMo.

I'm just not feeling it this year. It's just not happening. Since (for me) NaNo is for entertainment purposes only, I figger there is absolutely no point in me feeling bad about doing badly -- so badly, in fact, that today I can't even bring myself to open the document I've been working on for the past three days. Yes, it's five thousand and fifty-three words of "that bad." Not enough lipstick in the world to make that pig look good, IYKWIM.

My mistake was not following my own advice. To be fair, though, I couldn't have. What with helping Mr. B graduate to the next dimension and all, there just wasn't enough mental energy available to spend on giving a red, ripe rat's ass. I think that's a valid excuse, don't you?

Speaking of next dimension, my latest random coping technique is a sudden and unwavering faith in George Anderson and John Edward, those mediums who can communicate with the spirits of the dead. I've decided that I believe them with all my heart, everything they say is true, and that Mr. B is hanging around me -- and his pals if needed -- kind of like a guardian angel. So far it's working out pretty well. He gave me a great sunrise the other day. I do kind of blame him for letting me down with the whole NaNo thing, but I suppose I can only ask so much.

Oh, wait, here's a good one. Ready for this? The other day I found myself searching on WTF is up with that? It took me a day or two to realize that I was actually searching for Mr. B. I knew it was time to back away when I got an email with the subject line: "Mr. B* in Seattle is a match for you!" I almost shit myself before I realized it wasn't actually him. That was the end of

I guess that means the lonely is setting in. And it's the inside kind of lonely, not the kind that can be fixed by being with people. No way past it but through it, I suppose.

I'll leave you with something fun: Young Son got this in his trick or treat bag.

"I got a rock."

I think it's brilliant! I know what I'm handing out next year.

* Of course it didn't say Mr. B, but it did have his first name, spelled properly, which is not the common way. And that's a no-shitter.