I am well into my second year since my husband’s passing, and alternate between thinking it’s getting better with days of blinding, debilitating despair.
It’s like that famous drawing – you look one way and see a fresh young maiden, tilt your gaze ever so slightly, a crone. Now that a year of firsts have passed and some of the disbelief and numbness has dissipated, I find myself struggling with the reality of my new world order. “So this is my life now,” I think as I drag myself out of bed each morning.
I’ve been trying to stay busy and so make a conscious effort to make plans with friends, which helps a lot. I even embarked on a 12-day British Isles cruise. It was a mistake in hindsight. I committed to it last year when my emotional wounds were fresh, and I assumed I’d be better by now. I’ve spent too much time alone this past year to give up my solitude for such a long stretch. Making small talk with a boatload of strangers on the open sea every day all day, was a lot more work than I had anticipated.
I did accomplish one cool thing, though. While in Cobh, Ireland, I scattered some of James’ ashes into the water. He loved being Irish, and loved the ocean.
But once I returned to dry land and was again faced with my singleness, pent up despair took a huge hit upside my head. I am struggling to get back into my work routine, and make the days seem as though they matter. They don’t really. But maybe, if I tilt my head, ever so slightly, I can fool myself into thinking they do.