Really Real Widow Post
Parker has been showing up in the strangest ways lately.
I was sitting at my computer desk last night and suddenly I could feel myself in the neurology wing at Franklin Square Hospital. I knew exactly where I was, I could smell it, and feel it and hear it even though no one was there with me.
Parker and I spent a lot of time in that wing.
It was just for a split second and I teared up sitting here at my computer, with Wonder Woman only a few feet away, and when that happens I always feel so strange. Like, I feel like I’m hiding something, or lying.
I don’t want to suddenly yell out “Hey, I’m hurting” because I don’t necessarily need help, although comforting might be nice cause damnit those insta-tears are jarring . But also, when moments before I was talking about how much I love my life and how happy I am, and now I’m on the verge of tears, I feel like the person a few feet away from me shouldn’t suddenly be blindsided if they turn their heads and I’m crying.
Although right now it would be hard to tell. It’s that time of year again. Are my eyes red and running because I’m crying, because my allergies are being a bitch, or because I just used a makeup remover wipe?
Anyway, last week I also had a “I can’t wait to show Parker this” moment. And even harder, it had to do with Siah, the dog, who was Parker and my dog, and was then my dog, and is now very much Wonder Woman and my dog.
Even typing that feels like somehow I’m being a trader to Parker because her dog now loves someone else.
The conflicting emotions that happen because of all of this . . .
Seriously people, just, don’t die, it makes things far harder for those left behind. . . . . Damnit Parker.
Except, at the same time, I was sitting here last night talking to Wonder Woman about how content I am right now. I’m striving for more, for bigger and better things for myself, but I’m also really happy with how my life is now.
I even feel like I have a better handle on my mental health, even the depressive episodes are manageable. Now I’m going to duck and hide and wait for the other shoe to drop.
Nah, cause I do deserve nice things.
But it’s really hard to believe that I can be happy. It was seriously less than a half hour after I had the conversation about how happy I was, that I was transported, in my brain, to that hospital wing. My brain was trying to short circuit the happy. It’s not used to having nice things. And I still feel guilty for being happy when she’s dead, and when it took her being dead for me to have a chance to get out from under my own pile of shit.
That’s a heavy thing to carry.
But I don’t have to carry it (I say as the tears stream down my face).
This really honestly is my raw journal that you get access to. I hadn’t put two and two together until I typed this out. I hadn’t realized that talking about how happy I was, was why I started seeing the images of the hospital. And putting that together helps me see what demons my brain still needs to work out, and how much work I still need to do in therapy.
Widowing isn’t easy.