At least, that’s what all the haters inside my head accuse me of.
I wrote this piece for Medium yesterday and like most of my pieces lately, it got picked up for further distribution. It did give me an idea of something I can pitch to that women’s magazine website but other than that, it also just felt like such a final purging.
I know better than to think that that’s the end of my grieving. I already got a Snickers bar and a bottle of my favorite wine for Saturday night. I think this weekend is going to be tough for me.
But on the other hand, suddenly I feel like I can move forward with my grief. I might even move J’s coffee cup from the end table where it’s sat since he died.
I might even take down his bath towel that’s been hanging on the opposite towel bar in our bathroom.
All of this seems so sudden to me but it also feels like it’s time. I think I may change my pictures on Facebook too, to reflect my life as it is now.
I’m clearly not going to be one of those widows who I see in my FB support groups, who are years out from the death of their spouse and they say they still cry every day. In a way, I feel like that’s a bad thing on my part. Shouldn’t I still be crying every day? Why aren’t I?
What would I want J to do if the shoe were on the other foot?
Honestly, I would probably want him to grieve longer. But a big part of that is because there was always a pretty big part of me that was never really sure that he loved me.
I know that he did, to the most of his capacity. But that capacity was also very limited by all of the trauma he dealt with in childhood (and refused to address as an adult.)
As much as I loved him—and I really, really did—I also feel like I’m finally free. But I’m free at 48, which is not so great. At least I apparently look much younger than I am, which explains why so many younger guys are hitting on me.
Part of me wants to go out and enjoy the world. In some ways, I feel like I’ve earned that much.
But who’s to say that any of us gets what we deserve, anyway?