Reflected

I caught sight of my reflection last night, in one of the photos of Jeff I keep on the desk. I was looking over his shoulder, and it was as if we had traded places. He is vibrant and alive, and I am the spirit, watching over him.  I felt like I should be able to reach out and touch his cheek, and run my fingers through his hair, and call him sweet, silly names. And then I stop to cry again.

I fell silent towards the end of February and couldn’t think of anything to blog about, even though I wanted to write. It seemed like there was nothing left to say.

I think as the initial shock that carried me along for the first three months began to wear off I just ran out of steam, and my brain finally shut down. I stumbled backwards a lot, I felt worse than ever and the house seemed to always be closing in on me. I kept telling myself that it was just the bad winter that was keeping me down. I wanted the weather to change, I wanted it to be warm and pretty, but it occurred to me that as spring arrived I would no longer have a good excuse for hiding in the house. Deep down I don’t think I’ve really wanted to see warm, bright days. I know I’ll have to start moving around again, doing chores, interacting with people, and dealing with all the day to day things on my own that we would tackle together. Sometimes, in those moments when I haven’t managed to totally distract myself with some pastime, I realize that eventually I’m going to have to accept that he’s really gone, it’s not just a dream.

Of course my solution to these sudden realizations is to run away from that reality, drink the chocolate milk of forgetfulness, and bury myself under cozy blankets of denial.

It really is all a bad dream, Melony. Really it is. Close your eyes, take a nap, when you wake up it will all be okay. And if it doesn’t work the first time just keep repeating, eventually you’re bound to wake up out of the nightmare. And have some more donuts in between naps. You’ll feel better.

I often find myself wondering how long this feeling persists. Does it go on forever? I sometimes feel like I’m the old fashioned, stereotypical reclusive widow: forever dressed in mourning, never leaving my house, sitting in a dark room with the curtains drawn, perpetually weeping…

Well, I do wear a lot of black, but I’m sure that’s just a coincidence.

Today it has been four and a half months. 136 days. And yet it still feels like a day or so. Sooner or later I will have to step forward into the sunshine and try to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.

Jeff is gazing at me from that photo. He knows I can do it. I know I can do it, deep down there's an optimist inside me, I'm sure of it. I've pasted sticky notes with motivational comments all over the house: You can do it! Be the confident, self assured person Jeff always knew you could be!

I'm not sure they've started to help yet, but I'm not giving up.

I can do it.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen