More Endings

Thna Mbig GuhBang Theory

Yeah, this one got me today. I let it, because it’s better to let feelings express what they want to express rather than stifle or reason with them.

“What show do you want to watch tonight,” I would ask her to pick from any number of downloaded tv programs.

“Thna Mbig GuhBang Theory,” she’d say in her uniquely mangled speech, “and Young Sheldon.”

The Big Bang Theory is in it’s final season now. Just like everything else in the world, if you care about it or if you don’t, it will end sooner or later. I’m not crying about the tv show, but about the person who I love, who slipped away this year. And every little thing that she would have liked or did like or would have said or did say. All those things are in my head every day. And they make me cry.

Estate Horse Tack Sale, Deconstructing a Dream

I’m selling her horse tack. All the items were purchased by her at some point. She had a reason, a plan and dreams of using them. Big plans, it seems, for there is a lot of stuff. The website to sell it all was created by her. It was one of her bigger endeavors, being bedridden as she was and relying on me to take pictures. So much life was still in her declining body. She was forced to assist in the deconstructing of her dreams.

I hated that the tack took up a whole room for 10 years. I still am not fond of it. But each item that goes is like cutting a piece off of her dead dream and throwing it in the trash. I know the past is gone, but all the items keep reminding me of a life that was so much larger than what it finally became.

Soon my life will end, and the evidence of my existence will be a collection of things, random words written down and a hollowed out space where a person once resided. Whoever deconstructs my dreams will find that a lot of potential went untapped, only to evaporate. In whatever afterlife judgment that occurs, I will be charged with making poor use of abundant resources, among my many other sins.

NPD and depression

I began to think about the nature of my depression. I don't think it has anything to do with a lack of self-esteem. I think, quite the opposite, it stems from too high of an estimation of my own entitlements. I get disappointed by things which don't measure up to my expectations. Then I withdraw, take my marbles and go home kinda thing. Instead of seeing myself as worthless, I see myself as worthy of all lavishness and luxury, and when I don't get it, I pout. That pouting takes the form of sulking and isolation, which is then fed by thoughts which tend to justify this position. The effect of this isolation is that I become the kind of person who I don't like or admire, and then the feelings of worthlessness come in, pretty much justified by fact.

It's not that I haven't been crying lately

I just haven't had anything new to cry about. The same old thoughts occur to me, and when they catch me, when I let them, I get hooked in. I don't try to avoid them, it's my only connection to my recently departed past. When I say "recently departed past," instead of "Sharon," I think I am being more accurate. I mourned Sharon years ago. Then I grew bitter. Then she died. Then I grew remorseful and sentimental, and I whitewashed away all the bad times, all the hurtful, hateful things that we both said to one another.

I dealt with an angry person yesterday. I tell you, it was like looking at myself. All unreasonableness and overreaction, just ready to nuke it all, and who cares. That was me dealing with Sharon. I managed my emotions so poorly, I let her have the full brunt of my frustration which, if it felt anything like dealing with this angry person, must have hurt her tremendously. Or possibly made her develop a very thick, negative layer to protect her from feeling hurt. Because negatives repel, I would get back what I gave, and my negativity came back to me in spades.

Anyway, that's not what made me write today. My thought of the day, not profound or anything, was just a reaction to a picture of a little girl wearing a sunflower print outfit. Big, yellow sunflowers. Innocent little kid, representing summer. The caption was something about seasons getting ready to change.

It reminded me of last autumn. We were evacuated to an assisted living facility in Yuba City during the fire. Remembering that alone will make me cry. How we survived the fire and lived though that whole time together only for her to be gone now. But at the facility were old people, trying to maintain their dignity and individuality, somewhat, in an institutional setting. So on their doors were name placards with their pictures next to them. We weren't there long enough for that. We were just passing through. We had a home to get back to, a life to resume.

But one of the guests had adorned their door with a theme of autumn leaves and the orange and brown colors of the season. "Fall is just around the corner" it said. I don't know why this simple statement evokes pathos in me. Not because fall is the time of transition, of dying into winter. Of summer's passing. What makes me sad is the person, I don't know anything about them, probably old. Probably didn't even decorate it themselves. But it makes me think this person's identity was somehow wrapped up in this door decoration, making its proclamation to the hallway visitors. I cry for the intent, the impulse that made someone put that attempt at festivity on the door.

I mourn for all the things that claim to make people happy, that they identify with and say, "I like this." I don't have a handle on why this happens, but I call it promises undelivered. "Fall is just around the corner" but maybe that isn't going to apply to a person who is going to die in the next week. Will they be there to enjoy the fall? 

Hannelore died shortly after visiting us at that facility. Fall wasn't a happy time for her, she was suffering with ovarian cancer and not enjoying much of anything. The veneer of happiness is paper thin. A pink jumpsuit, a flowered outfit, autumn leaves on the doors. They say, "Here I am. This is who I am. This is what I like." And soon none of it will be there anymore. Jumpsuit folded and donated to charity, decorations taken down, flowered outfit outgrown.

I'm struggling to pinpoint the exact mechanism, the precise description of the process of my mental fuckery. I guess I'll give up for the time being.

Random Facebook Psychic gives me a message

This is some of a conversation that someone started with me out of the blue on Facebook Messenger back in July of this year. I just rediscovered it in my archives of “Crap I have written.” I copied and pasted it into Word for some reason, possibly to share it, but promptly forgot. So here it is, inserted where I believe appropriate, date-wise.

Ashley: Hello, my name is Ashley and I live in Oregon. I don’t know what your beliefs are but sometimes I can pass along messages from loved ones who have died. I can tell you with absolute certainty that your wife is okay. She told me to tell you “I never left” and I think she is trying to give you a hug. Please forgive me for the intrusion or if this causes more pain. I deeply hope this brings you some comfort in your grief. I’d encourage you to speak with someone who may be a medium (reputable) if you’d like some more help talking to her. I wish you peace, and I'm so sorry for your loss.

Me: I appreciate your reaching out to tell me this. You'll have to pardon my skepticism, I just am so stuck in this material world and have never had any kind of communication with deceased loved ones. I am either not sensitive enough or it is just not my path to be able to be shown these things. I really want to have that certainty, more than anything, that my wife's soul exists. That she is more than just a memory, but that her consciousness and essence is intact somewhere. She suffered with MS for years and I wished that she could be free of the prison of her body many times. But when she died I never got the impression that her spirit was here or that she was ok. I just felt that her life on earth had ended and I realized for the first time that I was going to miss her terribly. It's ok that I feel grief. I welcome it, it's all I have. I would like to know how you know what you know about the afterlife and my wife in particular. What can you tell me that would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt to my troubled mind that she is ok? Can she speak to you or tell you something specific that would convince me that it is her? I recently contacted a psychic who told me lots of nice stuff, kind of like what you said, but it was all very general and nothing uniquely of my wife's personality. The psychic was very nice and didn't charge me anything. I just feel that maybe I'm meant to be in the dark, as some karmic path I have to trod. I dunno, but I'm longing to be convinced.

27 July 18:47

Ashley: I will think hard about what you said and see if I’ll be able to pass along something concrete. That’s a completely rational and fair point of view. If I hadn’t had so many unexplainable events happen to me I wouldn’t believe either. I’m a corporate lawyer, of all things, and very analytical - not the kind of person you’d expect to spout psychic nonsense.

Ashley: I was able to connect with her today. She’s so kind and caring. She kept trying to show me something with her hands. At one point she showed me how she could hold my hand, intertwining our fingers. She made another gesture with her hands I couldn’t quite make out, like she was pointing to a ring on her ring finger. She also said very clearly, “I’m only a whisper away.” I know this is nonspecific and I’m very sorry about that. I wish I was better at this. In fact, I told your wife that and how worried I was about sending you bad information and she told me “oh honey you wont get it wrong.” She was so, so kind. And I really don’t think she’s left your side.

Ashley: What strikes me most about my encounter with her is the depth and force of her love and concern for others. She strikes me as the kind of person who can make you feel at ease and accepted and at home wherever you are, even if you haven’t known each other long. Someone who hugs and means it. Someone who is selfless with a gentle and easy sense of humor. If I’m off base please tell me. I don’t want to cause you any more pain.

Me: I don't disbelieve that you (or the other psychic) are having a real experience. With the one that does it for a living, I admit I had some suspicions beforehand because, well, it is too easy to find stuff out on Facebook and put together a little presentation where "specific" information given by the psychic is just public information anyway. I tend to rule out anything that is not so personal that it didn't find its way to the public realm. There are specific questions I could ask that would cement it for me if I got the right answer. I'm not sure why or how she would connect with you, but then I don't know how the whole other side works or if there even is another side. I'm very much a believe it when I see it type. But on the other hand I read testimonials and get all weepy and hope that they are true, because I just can't bear this reality if this is all there is. I appreciate what you are doing, however or why ever you are doing it.

Ashley: There is a lawyer I know who just lost his wife. He is deeply grieving. His wife happened to be a psychic. I never met her. But the husband has a wealth of knowledge of the other side. He’s much more informed than I am. If you’d like to email with him I can reach out to him to see if he’s like to connect.

Me: The person I knew gained a depth of character during her illness, but when we met she was very much a here and now, live for fun and what you can get out of life type of person. I don't really know if we inhabit these forms and take on various roles while we live and there is a larger personality behind it. I'm very interested in the esoteric, she was a "you live, you die and then who knows" type of gal. She hated all this afterlife talk. I will talk to anyone about this, it's kind of an obsession at this point. And I really would like to know, not just have a belief.

Ashley: I understand that. Knowing and believing are very different. I’ll reach out to him and see what he says. I’ve been meaning to talk to him anyways so this is perfect.

Me: Thank you. I will try to be open minded, but at the same time retain my standard of proof to be convinced. It would mean so much to me, if I only knew she was ok. How did you come to be aware of me and my wife? Was it a post that I commented on the other day?

Ashley: That’s fair. This might not help, but I’ve found the other side often tries to communicate through quite frankly explainable coincidences. Little things that make you say “oh huh, that’s weird timing” but that you can find a rational explanation for. If you keep an open mind and look for those little things, more things might start appearing. It’s tough though bc it feels like the belief vs knowing problem. So skip this if it doesn’t work for you if course. Yes, I saw some response you posted to something on FB. I don’t even remember what it was. I was reading the posts and as I read yours I immediately heard your wife trying to get my attention to send you a message to let you know she’s okay. I think I was drinking a cup of coffee just trying to wake up and then it hit me. I really struggled with the decision to contact you bc I’ve only ever passed on messages to people I know. But in the off chance this would help you I figured it wasn’t my place to hold it back. Definitely not something I sought out; just the messenger sort of thing.

Journal entry for July 2, 2018

I'm waiting for a call from an "animal communicator" who also talks to dead people on occasion. I summoned up the drive to activate a gift card that was given to me by some thoughtful person as a condolence. I used it in conjunction with Paypal to prepay the $35 for a one hour session. I heard about her from Julie, the person from whom I adopted Whiskey and Shadow.

I remain skeptical, although I did (do) think I hear a voice on an EVP recording I made a week ago. It's very faint but sounds like a female (possibly Sharon's) voice saying, "They were blocking you." Weird, huh? Who was blocking me? I let Houa listen to it and he couldn't make out what it said. So now I'm the crazy one!

I don't mind. It reminds me of her voice, clear again, like it used to be.

So, now I'm going to come up with some questions in case I get to actually talk to Sharon today. It's like I'm drawing a blank the closer the time gets. There are so many. So let's get them out in no particular order.

Are you ok?

Do you forgive me?

What's it like being dead?

Do you ever check in on me?

Will I ever see you again?

Are you still you?

Have you encountered anybody you know? Your mom? Grandma? Pets?

What happened right after you stopped breathing?

Did you meet God or any spiritual beings, like angels?

Did you have to go through a life review? If so, how did it go?

Do you have all the answers now or are you still confused about what it's all about?

Can you please try to communicate with me from time to time?

I miss you. I'm sorry for everything. I'm not getting over you. I never thought I'd miss you so much. It turns out you were the one great love of my life.

What do I do?

Can you, will you help me?

Can you help me feel joy again? And peace and love?

Is your situation good? Are you in "heaven?"

Did you encounter any bad beings in your travels?

Can you see what's going on here at the house?

Am I being "blocked" by bad entities? Am I a bad entity?

Did you go to Fort Bragg with me and see the places I spread your ashes?

How can I communicate with you? I didn't have much luck with the Ouija board, crystal ball or candles, but was that your voice on the recorder saying "they were blocking you?"

It's getting close to 2pm when the medium will call. I better get ready.

Was that you?

Was that you that brought the smell of roses to my attention as I watched a sappy movie from the 90’s? I only smelled them for a moment, but it was right before a scene in which a woman receives roses from a guy. The movie was “Truly, Madly, Deeply” a UK film about a woman not moving on with her life after her lover’s death. I wasn’t super into it, in fact it was going to put me to sleep, which is okay.

But then I smelled roses, briefly and thought about how you wanted me to bring home some rose scented air fresheners or candles. We only ever used the rosewater diffuser, and it has long since evaporated. The candles are sealed and produce no odor.

I’ve heard of this phenomenon before attributed to communication from the other side. I’m wondering, is it difficult for the dead to communicate with the living? Are they reduced to small parlor tricks to get our attention? I would love to have some form of communication with you, but I fear I am blocking it with my grief. I’ve heard that this makes it difficult.

I don’t understand any of this, I just want you to know that you are welcome to perform poltergeist activity here any time. I miss you. I know I can’t make you come back, but some kind of sign that you are okay would go a long way toward healing my grieving heart.

I made reservations at the Anchor Lodge in Fort Bragg for the night of June 22. It would be our 15 year anniversary. I intend to drive down early and visit the lighthouse where we were married and spread some of your ashes. I will keep some for other places we have visited, such as Caspar, Jughandle, Glass Beach, Pudding Creek and McKerricker Beach. That ought to be enough for this trip.

I have so many memories I wish I could just go back and live in, but those days only exist in my mind. I’ve been doing too much of that these days. I need to see the real world again, but I will miss having you there to see it with me. Or to at least come home to with pictures or souvenirs. I’m just so lonely without you here.

I hope you are well, wherever you may be.

Friends

I remember listening to the scanner once while my friend Martin (pronounced Mar-teen) was replacing the clutch on my 86 Honda Accord. We were eavesdropping on a cordless phone conversation in which one person was very depressed and possibly suicidal and the other person was trying to comfort them. The one girl was upset because her boyfriend had broken up with her and she felt so alone, like she had nothing to live for. The other girl said, in a pathetic attempt to comfort her, “Friends is coming on tonight, so you have that to look forward to.”

That’s it?

Yep. It has always stuck with me. That one might be so low that the only light in their day is a TV show that is coming on later in the evening. What a completely sad picture that painted. A person with nothing to live for being kept from suicide by that tiny of a thread.

I asked Sharon when things were irreversible what kept her going, what was she sticking around on this planet for? She had lost so much of what a person can get enjoyment from. “TV shows,” was her answer. I feel like I’m in the same boat right now, clinging hour by hour to the next little thing that promises to be worth living for.

And Friends was cancelled a long time ago.

Horseradish

In my life with Sharon, I would get depressed and act all mopey from time to time. During one of my down periods, she told me to put horseradish on the shopping list. Why? Because she thought it would make me happy. It was one of those little luxuries that I had been denying myself, and if it would make me feel better, then dammit, get some horseradish.

At one point, I had been eating horseradish pretty regularly. So much so that I commented about how much money I could save if I just cut out that one item at the store. I did do that and, although I never calculated the actual savings, I’m sure it was substantial.

I’ve been eating horseradish lately, unfortunately, it just reminds me that my kind, thoughtful, loving wife is no longer here.

I should probably stop buying it. It didn’t fix anything then, either. But it’s the thought that counts.

Closed Until Further Notice

A reply to Lori

Hey. Haven’t heard from you in awhile. Talk to us! We miss you.

Sorry, Lori (and friends). I have restrained myself from sharing my thoughts on Facebook because I am in a dark place. I am honestly more afraid and depleted of hope than I think I have ever been. I feel so alone, but I’m not looking to garner the usual rounds “sorry for your loss” “hang in there” “sending love and prayers” and the like. All these well-intentioned words are just hollow phrases and can’t penetrate into where I am at right now.

I’m not making any progress in overcoming my grief, rather I’m giving in to it. Sinking. Spiraling. I can’t project anything close to positivity, and so I’ve chosen to avoid making the rest of you aware of my self-indulgent stagnation. I’m ashamed of myself for not being a better human. I just feel like giving up, that’s all. I don’t know, maybe I already have and it’s just a slow motion slide into whatever comes next.

Since I’m too cowardly to commit suicide, I guess no intervention is needed. But I would welcome going to sleep and just not waking up. At least not waking up as me. Unfortunately, I don’t even sleep that well anymore.

I have so many toxic thoughts, sad thoughts, selfish, self-pitying thoughts. It’s endless. I’m losing the battle. Ultimately, as I have seen, life ends regardless of how you play the game. I am such a poor sport, thinking I should enjoy a life without pain or sorrow. I am only beginning to see the dues that must be paid and it is overwhelming. I watched Sharon play the worst hand that could be dealt, and I know I could never come close to handling it with such grace and lack of fear.

I don’t know that anyone would really miss me. People don’t even know me. I’ve tried to project an image that is much more of a positive, wizened sage than is actually me. I’m more of a frightened, lonely little kid pouting in a corner waiting for someone to come and invite him to the party. Only, I would just find an excuse to decline the invitation, anyway.

The only one who really knew me at all is gone. I don’t know if we will ever meet again. My mind tends to not believe in such things. I can’t feel her presence. There’s so much I relied on her for emotionally. All I do is make myself cry every day thinking about my sad story, her sad story and I torture myself with these memories. And I don’t want to stop doing this. I don’t want to move on, get past it or get over it. I am stuck.

My body is giving me clues that this cannot go on forever. I am not getting younger. I’m seeing the point of diminishing returns. If it were taken out of my hands I guess I am ok with my life being over. If it were quick. And painless. And no one else had to suffer because of it.

See why I haven’t been sharing? Nothing helpful, playfully insightful or cheery. I am going back to hiding under a rock until further notice. Thanks for inquiring about me, though. It means something that someone noticed I’m not around.

I wouldn't have missed it for the world

Is what I would say to her now about all those long, miserable years we spent suffering from her affliction together…

Because now that’s all I have are memories of her being alive, and sure, I block out most of the bad ones. Hell, I can’t even feel those feelings now. All I can feel is the longing for what I had and didn’t appreciate.

She was alive. And she cared about me.

I don’t think I can ever be the same or better than I was with her, I’m just going to try not to slip downhill as fast as I know that I could.

We had some trying times. I felt so overworked and unfulfilled. Now, I hardly do anything, and I feel like life is just going to trample me into the ground. Entropy is moving faster than I can. Soon, I’ll be gone too.

And I’ll think back on these days, these lonely, miserable fucking days that I hate to endure, and I’ll say “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world”. 

Tired

I’m tired of being alive. I’m tired of being alone. I can’t stand the daily life I live anymore. The constant rituals and routines of avoiding pain and physical problems, as little as they might be compared to some people’s. I am a coward. I don’t want to face it anymore.

If I don’t dwell on the past, I feel nothing. No spark of life, no new day of hope. Just an endless cycle of trying to get through the day. Eyedrops, eyesprays, walks and supplements, exercise and eating. Watching endless tv, movies, and listening to audio programs.

I get dressed in the morning and I tell myself, “Who cares that I wear this or that?” because honestly, no one does. I don’t feel liberated or free, I just feel uncared about. I am the only one who sees me, besides the random people driving down the road when I go for a walk. What do they really care? Are they going to notice if my shirt or socks or shorts don’t match? Or if I dressed myself tidily or not?

My friends and family are not pestering me at all. Does that mean they don’t care? Or do they feel like there is nothing they can do? With a few exceptions, they don’t even try to initiate any sort of contact. Truly, the person who has spoken to me the most in the last two and a half months is a person who I only know from a 25+ year ago Bible Study.

For some reason he is now the person who is actually validating my personhood, even if he doesn’t know who I am anymore. He remembers this guy, the one from those days a long ago.

I don’t know that remembering those days is giving me a reason to want to continue to live in this world. It seems like a one way trip. My consciousness is now firmly embedded in the world of suffering from the loss of my wife. And my petty, but annoying health issues.

If I’m not crying, I’m not feeling anything. I guess I’ll continue to cry. Alone.

I Don't Think

I don’t think I’ve ever known what it means to love.

I can’t say I’ve ever treated someone as good as I wanted

To be treated.

I expect much, I give little.

I get upset because I know that I’m not loved much,

But I’m reaping what I’ve sown.

Indifference.

Aloofness.

The minimum.

I could have been more thoughtful, and habituated kindness

Instead of selfishness.

All I have is my own solitude and regret.

And a legacy of things left as an example by someone who cared

Enough to listen to me and buy something that she thought I might

Enjoy.

I called it her shopping addiction, she was always buying stuff.

But it was mostly stuff to make my life easier, or some little thing

She tucked away from a conversation in which I said “I wish I had…”

I gave her little for birthdays and Christmas because she was

“Hard to shop for” I would say. Only because she had already bought

What she wanted and more.

I just never got the jump on her and took initiative.

As much as it would have meant to have one birthday or Christmas

That wasn’t a disappointment.

Not that it was, because she was so used to it that she never expected much.

And she wasn’t disappointed in that regard.

But she must have had some longing hope for a come from behind finish

From me.

A big scrooge moment of redemption, which never came.

All I'm Left With

All I’m left with is my life of routines and rituals. My stupid self-care habits and chores, eyedrops, eyelid scrubs, herbal supplements, exercise and activity, mandatory walks, housecleaning, pet feeding, flower watering and lawn mowing. And TV shows and movies.

Yeah, it’s a pretty fluffy hell, but imagine no emotions, just routines. Endless routines. And hours to fill. Choices to be made. Path A or path B, neither one leading to a real sense of fulfillment, just different ways to waste time. The things that mark time are the things that break, rot or fall apart and die. The things that end.

Even my TV shows and movies are just temporary distractions. They end. The next thing needs to be done. Brush my teeth. Go outside. It’s Sunday, so no mail to be checked. Check Facebook. For what, I dunno. Habit. I am on strike, refusing to like anything, even if I do like it. Have to keep up my image of the pouting sufferer.

I still have my grief, but I wonder if I lose that too, what will be left of me? This disappearing act is frightening. I’m a Cheshire grumpy cat and all that will be left will be my frown. Until that too, disappears. I’ll still have my self-criticism and doubt, I suppose. Of all the things I’ll probably never give up, I’ll hold onto these useless traits even after I’m dead, if that’s possible.

I can’t be sure that I will get away from myself by committing suicide. I might wind up with all my bad traits hanging on into the afterlife, if that’s even a thing. So with infinite potential, I’ll be the everlasting procrastinator-slacker and I’ll just never get around to creating a decent heaven for myself. I’ll get stuck with the off-the-shelf hell version of existence that I currently reside in. Not quite bad enough to be damnation, but insidiously unfulfilling enough to not be heaven.

Just plain, old, boring me.

I'm going to import some older word docs that should have been in here or not

The dates may be off, but I'll try to put the original date on the top of each one.
I recently came across Sharon's blog from the 09-12 era. I can only say that it is way more toxic than mine, so she wins again. I can't even be the meanest, nastiest person in the relationship, although to read her stuff you'd think I was.

**I've found a way to integrate them by editing the "published on" date. I'm just trying to make the timeline more linear and less of an afterthought. 

I've Been Withdrawing

I have been absent on Facebook lately. I can’t say that I haven’t lurked, but I haven’t interacted or reacted or participated for a while now. I don’t want to keep going on about my present state of mind or my troubles. It is torturous just being me. I don’t want to infect anyone else with my negativity.

I’ve been here before, but it’s worse now. I used to always have at least one real person in this world who was here for me. One who actually knew me and cared about the little things that constituted our life together. Even though I was the caregiver, I feel like she actually cared more about me than I was even capable of. It came naturally to her, whereas I feel that I am missing an empathy gene or something.

I don’t share much on Facebook these days because I would rather people imagine a more favorable version of me. Any one from the past will do, the one you remember that made you want to even be my friend in the first place.  I want people to think of me as someone who is wiser or stronger than the miserably failing human being that I have become. I am not learning my lessons in life and am stuck in a rut of my own making.

I don’t share my feelings of weakness on Facebook because I don’t want to elicit the usual round of  “thinking of you” “so sorry for your loss” “prayers and hugs” “sending love your way” and the like. If anyone has sent them, they didn’t get here or maybe I just missed them, too subtle for my perception. I am pretty thick, so it’s possible. I need someone to throw a brick with the words “I love you, dummy” written on it and hit me in the head.  I know I would at least feel the brick.

The last eight years have taken me down quite a lot. I have lost my ability to feel joy. I don’t know that will ever get that back. I can say “I had fun” or “I enjoyed that” if I attempt to engage in some activity that is prescribed to make me happy, but they are just words. I experience pain, sorrow, loneliness, fear and the range of negative emotions in their rawest, purest form. But happiness and joy are just cardboard cutouts, unreal ideals to me.

I don’t share these things because I want people to think I’m better than this. That I’m not a self-indulgent, depressed person who is unable or unwilling to fix himself and get on board with life. Truthfully, I don’t want to move on. I just want to curl up and die and it’s not happening fast enough. I am too cowardly to hasten it by deliberately doing myself in, so nobody go calling the cops or anything. They’d most likely be of more assistance in actually hastening my demise by filling me with bullets for reaching in my pocket or failing to comply with some command.

I think of Sharon, how she clung to life and appreciated it even when it seemed everything had been taken away from her. For the last two days of her life all she could do was breathe in a panting, labored struggle. But she kept on for as long as she could because, why? I don’t know. Life wants to live? Then what would make me want to give up so easily? Am I just that unappreciative of everything that I have and the things that I can still do? I feel like I’m already dead inside or at least crippled to the point of non-recoverability.

I’m having a hard time convincing myself that anything I do is worthwhile. When Sharon was alive, I guess I had a purpose. If I did all the little things in a day that sustained her, I could say I was doing something meaningful. But see how that turned out? The end was inevitable, nothing could have kept it from happening eventually. So why does my life have to keep trudging onward? Can’t we just call it, already?

Light and love to the other side

RIP precious angel. I can't hear or see you anymore in this world. Light and love. I mean it. I want so much to know you are ok and still exist somewhere. This worked in the past. At least, I convinced myself it did. Please send a message back to me. Please, I'm missing you.

Checkmate vs Stalemate

It isn’t checkmate yet,

Although, a lot of moves are no longer possible.

Previously used tricks to get me back to a happy place,

Whether crutches or prescribed wisdom,

Just don’t have their effect,

Or worse, carry within them a worse problem than the original affliction.

Case in point:

I used to drink to dull the pain of my thoughts,

I did so in moderation, but it was an insidious addiction that always led to saturation.

It gave me health issues, which increased my level of depression.

I had relied on it for years, to the detriment of my liver and other previously unknown and

Underappreciated bodily systems.

So, after it got acute I had to quit.

Check.

I had other moves.

I had quit smoking weed for health reasons, too. A good case of
bronchopneumonia left

Me unable to ride my bike for a while.

Bike riding was my one satisfying joy at the time.

I could get good exercise, fresh air and eventually my mind would get
out the way of my

Having a good time.

So I made the choice to abandon my lifelong crutch, marijuana,
because it just made sense.

Now, an eye condition keeps me from enjoying much bike riding.

Or much of anything.

Check.

The weed also exacerbates this condition.

Check.

As does watching too much TV,
Eating too much comfort food,
Cleaning my filthy house,
Getting too much sun, or humidty.

Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.

I’m running out of moves.

I am doing a lateral crab dance with death.

If I do nothing, I’ll deteriorate and he’ll win.

If I do the wrong types of things, like, umm, everything I’ve tried
up to this point,

I’ll go down one of many paths which have levels of suffering
which make them very

Unpromising, to say the least.

So, I do a little of this, a tiny bit of that.

And I think of my dying wife every day.

She ran out of moves.

And she was the consummate advocate of playing the game
until the end.

When we would play Monopoly, I could always see the point
in the game where it was

A tedious, unwinnable torture.

Not her.

I saw her lose the longest, most torturous game a person could
ever conceive of.

She had everything stripped away from her that she loved.

And in the end she clung to only breathing.

For two days. Just breathing.

And she didn’t want to give that up.

But she had to, because she was out of moves.

I’m not there yet.

It’s a stalemate, and I see already that I can’t win.

And the game is soured because of that.

What Do I Do?

“What do I do?”

It was one of the last things she said to me.

When it began to sink in how sick she actually was.

“I’m really sick, aren’t I?”

“Oh, now you tell me?” I tried to feign sarcasm.

“What do I do?”

“Honey, you have to get those antibiotics in you. And fluid. And nutrition.”

“Ok,” she said but was not able to do it.

She couldn’t bounce back.

And I can’t accept that she’s now gone forever.

And I’m not bouncing back, either.

What do I do?

All my friends and family don’t really get it.

Their prescriptions don’t work.

Grieve. Don’t grieve. Think about her. Don’t think about her.

Think positive things.

Do positive things.

Get out and get some exercise.

Play music.

Write down your pain. That’s a good one. I’m building a time capsule of misery.

I’ve revisited some of my past time capsules and don’t find them too refreshing.

Make new friends.

Spend time with family.

Hug your pets.

Help someone else who is hurting.

None of these things are getting to the point.

I have a big hole in my heart and I can try to patch it or plug it or sew it back together,

But it is not bouncing back,

Nor do I really want it to.

I feel like my work is done,

And all I’m doing now is watching the rest of my life slip away.

I wish I could feel better,

It’s what everyone says she would want.

For me to keep going,

Not forget, but move forward,

Honor her memory by not fucking up the rest of my life with torturing myself.

But what do I do?

If I hear birds singing I think,

“The birds are really going to town” is what she always said.

And it made me cry then because she could hear the birds, but couldn’t see them.

Or go outside.

Or do anything.

But she could appreciate that simple thing and observe it cheerily.

And all it does is make me cry,

Rivers of sweet tears.

I’ll never forget.

I don’t want to.

When Sharon Was Alive ‎

When Sharon was alive, all I could think about was how I was being kept prisoner by her illness.

How one day, when she finally died, I would be free.

I would pursue all my dreams that were so out of reach due to my being a caregiver.

I thought, “I’ll finally be able to go places, do things and I will never waste another minute sitting around this house.”

Yeah, and now that she’s gone,

All those dreams have evaporated.

And all I want to do is lay there in bed,

And watch golf on a Saturday.

And Sunday.

When I was working, I thought, “If only I didn’t have to work, I’d get so much more accomplished around the house.”

“I’ll be a better caregiver and housekeeper.”

“I’ll focus my energy on taking care of things here and have time left over to pursue my hobbies, like music, bike riding, gardening…whatever I like. I’ll have time.”

Now, with no job and no Sharon to take care of, it’s just me.

And I have no dreams left to pursue and I just can’t make myself care about much around here.

It all seems so pointless.

Just want to watch golf.

And sleep.

But my eyes are plaguing me.

The left one, mainly.

And sleep is even hard for me to get much of these days.

Not for lack of trying, but because I have to wake up and put eyedrops in my eyes after a couple of hours.

I am thinking now, “Maybe when I’m dead, I won’t have this or that problem to deal with and I can finally be free.”

But will I be?

Not if I’m still me.

No Answers

For as long as I can remember, I have thought that, ultimately, there were objective Answers, even  to the questions that my mind had yet to form.

Questions about life and death, truth and fantasy, who we are, why we’re here,

What meaning does it all have?

Is there a God? Is there an afterlife? Heaven and hell? Reincarnation?

Is the world of matter and physically observable reality all that exists?

Surely, there are firm truths that can cut through the myths, separating actual facts from

Made up stories.

But I’m not so sure about that anymore.

I’m leaning toward the notion that all is fiction.

Stories we tell ourselves to give us a sense of purpose, place and identity.

Events happen, we describe them and give them their form.

Consciousness is a bitch.

I wish I could experience life without it for a moment,

See if it would be better.

But then, how would I know?

TV Was On ‎

I left the TV on when I went out today.

Big mistake.

So, when I came home I heard the sound coming from the bedroom,

And, of course, it reminded me of you.

And I thought, oh, how I wished,

That I could just turn the TV on and you would be back,

Just like that.

But you weren’t there.

It was just another mirage,

Another memory that made me cry.

Not that I wasn’t planning to do that anyway.

I Can't ‎Saturday

I can’t stop this business of making myself cry daily.

I should say, I don’t want to stop it.

I don’t want to be hardened and tough and resilient and bounce back  to what’s next for me.

 

I can’t see what’s next, I can only see backward.

And backward has all the memories and the sweet pain of my  sad, sad story. Sadder today than it was when it happened, because I control the edit, the focus and the resolution.

 

A parent shouldn’t outlive their children, isn’t that what they say? I keep seeing things, all kinds of things, and I think, “I just bought that—for Sharon.” A person shouldn’t be outlived by a frozen pizza or some bag of  crappy burritos or tater tots. A person, for God’s sake, wrapped up and hauled away to be disposed of. 

 

How could I have been so cruel, not to treasure her, whatever her condition, for her essence? I was blinded by my own self-pity and forgot everything that was important in life, if I ever knew it to begin with.

 

I’m crying for her not being here, but is it for me that I do this? Am I trying to convince myself I’m a good person who misses his wife? Am I trying to cement my role as the sufferer in this world, so I can  opt out of everything else?

 

I feel lost and unmotivated, except to cry.

Yesterday's Problems

I can’t trade yesterday’s problems for today’s.

But if I could, and it would bring you back, I would.

If  I could have another chance to talk to you again,

Another chance to be kind instead of impatient,

Then I would go back with my eyes open and not full of tears,

And kiss you and tell you nice things,

And make sure you knew for sure,

How much you meant to me.

I never really knew just how much,

Until the days grew shorter and there was no time left,

For grand gestures, or even small ones.

I treated our lives like a dreary movie that I just wanted to be over,

Never realizing that over is over, and I’d have no one to even talk to

About how much I hated the movie.

But I didn’t have to hate it, I could have seen more clearly,

And I would have seen the beauty and precision of everything.

I still don’t see it, and if I ever do, who will I tell it to?

Since I don’t have you.

What Could Have Been Any Different?

What could have been any different? Or any better? What more could Sharon have done? She hung in there so long. I can’t imagine her gearing up for any more rounds of illness and recovery. She just didn’t have the last fight in her. I wasn’t ready for her to quit, maybe she was.

I could hear her breaths getting shallower and fainter. I just wanted to comfort her, but didn’t feel it was working. I put on the music to soothe her. I lay next to her and held her hand. I said all the words I knew to give her faith in her soul’s existence. I didn’t buy any of what I was saying, so I doubt she did either.

OH GOD. All I have now are memories. And all they do is make me cry. I’m hurting my eye with tears, and my whole body just gets weaker because I can’t find the will to do much of anything. I can’t give up yet, I have to try to keep doing things. Telling myself the things I’m doing are worthwhile, necessary. If I could just sleep. And sleep and sleep and sleep. I wouldn’t mind living, but it involves so much pain.

I’m not in massive physical pain, just the nagging little kind that tells you you’re old and will most likely not get any better. You’ll just learn to live at this level until you drop down to the next one. Somewhere along the way, spiritual understanding is supposed to kick in. The gratitude for all things that are still “OK.” Or a shift in perspective would take place, that all is OK, despite appearances. This hasn’t happened yet.

I’m still the same old entitled, self-centered ego guy that used to be quite a bit better off and didn’t realize it. Now I realize how good I had it. So many things I took for granted, now ripped away from me. My whole center is gone. Though I despised my role and felt that I was forced into it, now all I can do is cry about this little thing or that little thing that she would have said, or did or thought. About this or that or anything and everything. She gave me a focus, and even if it was something I felt I’d be better without, it was my identity.

Now how am I supposed to live? I am freer than I have ever been in my life. To do whatever, whenever. And I just wish I could crawl back to a month and a half ago and have a few more minutes of that, please. OH GOD.

Just get through another evening. Another meal and TV show. Another toothbrushing and tea. Whatever little things I do, filling up the empty slots until I can sleep. Maybe I’ll sleep a few hours, maybe. Maybe tomorrow will be a little better, maybe. Maybe not. I’d have to bet the second, given entropy’s track record.

I planted some stuff in the garden today. I’ve been tilling the soil and making flower beds and some areas for vegetables. Some of the sunflowers I planted last week have sprouted. I am doing this for her. She saw that I was enjoying watering flowers last spring and she bought some seeds. And a couple of urns for planters. And a gazing ball and a Buddha statue. She was always wanting to buy me whatever she thought I’d like. So now I just have more things to remind me of her. I hope the flowers do well. I’ll do my best to take care of them.