Another rainy morning.
I have impressed myself with how I have put my epiphany on acceptance into play. If you have run into me you may not have noticed, or if you have been the asshole in front of me on the road you certainly have not noticed, but I have definitely felt a shift in my mind towards other people.
Not so much for myself.
Having a husband die is like having a baby. #Truth
I had Sicily at 29; all of the years up to 29 were spent figuring out who I was, who I was not, what I wanted and where I wanted to be. After she was born, everything changed and there was that inevitable time of soul-searching and trying to figure all of that out all over again, only with a tiny, precious person in tow. This is why, I believe, in addition to hormones, many women suffer from serious postpartum depression - realizing that no matter what you think, no matter how hard you try, after that baby comes out you are a different person. Acceptance again. Very difficult. But I digress.
Having a dead husband, especially on the younger (youngish - 42. That is youngish, yes?) side of things has forced me to evaluate YET AGAIN who and what I am. It took me 29 years to figure it out the first time. I am really not interested in taking another 29 years to figure it out again, especially not with Sicily watching me now, seeing how I react and respond to everything, but it feels like a different, awful kind of new beginning. I don't feel resistance in myself, knowing this is what I have to do, but I can't quite accept myself in this new phase. I feel old, tired, beleaguered, not so attractive. I feel like a walking rictus of pain and sadness; it's hard to imagine being alone forever, but who the hell would want to sidle up next to THIS (gestures to self)? It is keeping me up at night, literally, which is not helping at all. In addition to trying to figure out how I am going to make money and be fulfilled intellectually (and emotionally, as far as helping other people and being more than just an oxygen-sucking drain on the planet and my fellow man), I have to figure out how to feel good again physically.
And yes, I exercise (yoga, hiking, planking like a madwoman). I don't eat enough, but I have recently starting taking vitamins to supplement that, and drinking tons of water, which I really hate. I am not talking about that. I am talking about feeling pretty instead of like the lone old shoe I saw in the road the other day.
There. I said it.
So I am doing what I can on the outside to help the inside, but it's super slow going. The outside doesn't look like much if the inside is totally screwy. It is hard to admit how much someone else's opinion of my physical self meant, but Dane's carried a lot of weight. He saw me at my worst (which was not, amazingly, childbirth) and thought I was smokin' hot (well, okay, maybe not at the time, but totally afterwards). Along with everything else he did that I have come to realize too late, this is one thing that you can't really just replace. Or rather, maybe you could replace it for an evening (ahem) but not for real. That takes mother-effing TIME. And I have never been good at waiting.
*This blog brought to you in a moment of weakness and vulnerability. If you can't say something nice, please shut your piehole and unsubscribe. Hell hath no fury like a woman in grief who feels like a schlub 99% of the time. You've been warned.