I get asked that. A lot. Like, a few times every day. But I consider that an improvement over multiple phone calls I was getting every hour for the past 3 weeks.
Oh, I know people mean well, but what do you say when people as you if you’re okay? Heck no, I’m not okay. I’m a hot mess. And by hot, I don’t mean in the sssssizzle-hot sense.
But that’s not what I tell ‘em. I say, oh, I’m doing fine. I’m getting through one day at a time. More like, one minute at a time. How can you go from laughing to gut-wrenching sobs back to laughing in the span of 5 minutes?
It ain’t fun, lemme tell you.
Tomorrow will be the three week ‘anniversary’ of Marlon’s death. Can that be possible? I’m still in the I’ll-wake-up-pretty-soon-from-this-nightmare phase. I’m tired of all of this, I can tell you that. I’m tired of crying, of feeling depressed, of seeing one little thing on TV and losing it.
You’d think it’d be safe to watch QVC, right? Just a simple l’il shopping channel. But, ohhhhh no, my friends. Right now they’re showcasing a Masterbuilt Smoker. The exact same one I got Marlon for Christmas last year.
There’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, believe me. It totally sucks.
So I try to “stay strong”. (If you’re one of the many who’s told me that, forgive this little rant, k?) I’m trying with all my might to resist the temptation to punch the next person who says that to me. Stay strong? What does that mean? I wake up each morning. Sometimes I even wash my face. Today is a big one because I’m actually doing laundry. (running out of clean underwear will do that, no matter how badly you feel.)
But strong? I’m not strong. Not in the least. Ok, so maybe I haven’t crumpled into a pile of mush, unable to function at all. But that’s only because I’ve been there, done that, over a stupid man who left me. (Disclaimer: I was in my 20’s. That makes a big difference.) I know full well when I’m getting close to that stage. There’s a line, ya know, and if you cross it, it’s not an easy road back.
No, I’m trying to find . . . what are they called? Strategies? Methods? Any damn thing to make myself feel better when I’m headed down the slippery slope to the pile of mush. Anything that won’t raise a red flag unexpectedly.
Music? uh-uh. Well, some of it is okay. Radio stations are dangerous so I had to figure out Pandora and my phone. I just asked my grandson and he showed me what to do. No joke. Aerobics? blech. I do them, but only for my mother. Writing? hmm . . . sometimes. Like now. Other times, my mind can’t put two sentences together. Mindless online games? Even they don’t hold the appeal they did three weeks plus one day ago. Painting? *deep breath* I’m gonna try it today.
All of my clients have been unbelievably patient and gracious but at some point I’ve got to get to gettin’ and start working again. It’s called #Iliketoeat.
I actually found something last night that made me happy. Made me smile. Snicker. Guffaw. Pure gold. Manna from the heavens, in my book.
Her name is Roo and she blogs at Nice Girl Notes. I’d love to email and tell her how she literally saved me from the deep, dank depths of widow-depression but I’m afraid – no, I know – she’d think I was a raving lunatic. She wouldn’t be too far off actually. But today I’m trying to pull off some semblance of normalcy here.
And I wanted to share her site with you. You’ll love it. That is, if you like to laugh. And I do. Like to laugh. So did Marlon. That was the one consistent thing people said about him at his memorial – his laugh. Oh, sheesh. I haven’t finished my post about his memorial. Well, I may or may not finish it. Anymore, I’m just going with the moment because I dunno how I’ll feel tomorrow, or in the next hour.
How am I doing? Pretty good, right now. I just read a bunch of Nice Girl Notes and said Hi to my lovely blog readers.
Life is sweet.
I’ve been sharing Marlon’s passing as a loving tribute
for our sons and grandson. So far, I’ve written about saying goodbye, the emergency room, his passing and my manifesto.
Thank you for your prayers and kind comments. God bless you.