Every Sunday it happens.
I go into my office to print out the grocery list.
And find myself on the computer
something that will ease the unease.
I read the past week’s posts of the other widows.
I look at my emails.
I answer the ones that don’t take much out of me.
Finally, I refocus but not before I feel
by the emails
that require me to plan, to think, to notice that I have to do it again
I have to make lists that will get checked off
Before I get stuck in overwhelm, I force myself to remember what I came in for.
I print out the grocery list and begin the routine.
Weeks meal plan
Three grocery stores
To Do List for the week
Every Sunday, I feel empty and alone.
Every Sunday I use my computer as a way to run from it
and every Sunday it doesn’t work.
This Sunday I went further
I tried ice cream, hoping the cold creaminess will make me
So I tried alcohol.
Hoping the gentle relaxation would allow me to weather the
insecurities, the fear, lesson the weight of the world that not only sits on my shoulders
but my spine,
my stomach and
I call a neighbor. “Do you have anything?” I ask.
He runs me up a little something to smoke.
I look at it. I go to light it and I stop.
I know it won’t work either.
So I call this guy I know. This friend.
Strong hands, a comforting hug, a good kisser
I go to him.
I want to know that I matter to another man.
I want to feel his arms around me, to sink into the testosterone, the power
the protectiveness of him.
but only for a little while.
I get back into my car
And I am crying
And praying to God
“Please help me!
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t take the weight, I cannot make one more decision on what we will eat this week by myself I can’t!”
And even as I say it, I know I am lying.
I’ve done it every Sunday for over 52 of them. I can do it for 100s more.
Every Sunday I wonder, is this it?
Is this what surviving grief looks like?
Is this what I worked so hard to get too?