Up and down. Backward and forward. In and out. Happy and sad. Push and pull. Run and hide.
A couple of weeks ago, my bff and my sister plotted and schemed to get me out of my funk, get my ass out of bed and get on with my life. It sounds like they were horribly mean and insensitive, but this is my summation, not their words. It was my mantra the entire week I had their energy and steam to operate on. I got out of my funk, got my ass out of bed and got on with my life – for 6 whole days. I crashed on Day 7 and haven’t been able to do a single productive thing since.
“Haven’t been able to” really means I’ve chosen not to. I feel like crap and know it’s all in my mind. I’m tired. I can’t get to sleep at night. I’ve got random nerve pain throughout my entire body. My muscles are so sore. I’ve almost always got a headache. Anxiety sometimes swallows me whole. I’m lazy. I’m overweight. I’m pretty damn useless right now.
I can’t talk about Jeremy without crying. Even if it’s just a simple “your dad would love this” moment. I’ve tried several times to order his headstone; each phone call ushers in tears and and the hollow pain that burns inside with the weight of his memory. I decided today I would finally take care of that monkey on my back, and I am. But dammit!, not without death’s sting. Where, O death, is your sting? In every freaking room of this house, that’s where. In every crevice of our lives, every box that’s checked ‘widowed’ instead of ‘married’, every permission slip that forgoes Dad’s name, every picture that is now proof of our past, every decision as a mom without a dad, a wife without a husband, a life without a reason.
Sounds cryptic, I know. Unaware or uncaring of Christ’s love and purpose that is my life, ungrateful for obvious blessings through this shitstorm and very unlike my attitude throughout this entire ordeal, I know. I know, I know, I know.
God forgive me, I know.