It’s As if You’d Died

I just tried calling DSB, on the last number I have for him.  It went straight to voicemail.  I don’t know what I would have said, had he answered.  I probably would have just continued crying, as I have been for the past hour.  I know I haven’t been great about responding to comments in a timely fashion, but everyone keeps talking about grieving and grief.  I guess it is now sinking in that this is what I am left with — grief.  And I have to find my way through it.

I feel like, for the moment, I am over being angry and celebratory over our break-up.  Now I just feel sad.  The way it feels now, its as if DSB had died and I am left with the emotional and physical wreckage, and I can’t see or talk to him anymore.  Those are all true things, about the wreckage, about not being able to see or talk to him.  But he didn’t die; at least not in a physical sense.

Which is strange, because I have been preparing for him to die for the last six months.  He has just been so sickly and has had some close calls and I spent many nights waking up to check if he was still breathing.  I spent the last six months thinking I could lose him in a split second to another blood clot or from not being able to breathe due to the pneumonia or a septic infection in  his wound vac.  I have been preparing myself, anticipating his physical death.

So why isn’t it easier on me?  If I had been so sure that he was going to pass away from physical reasons, and be gone, then why is it so hard that he is alive and gone?  I made him go.  So that should make it easier.  For some reason, it doesn’t.

I find myself lacking closure.  Everywhere I look, there is a piece of him.  A necklace he gave me, our matching recliners, the entire office in general, TV shows we watched together, sitting at the dining room table having coffee.  It’s just too much.  There is too  much of him in this house and it makes me feel terrible.  It gets worse when I sit outside and think of all the times we hung out in the backyard with the dogs, when we very first got together, and grilled every night and sat back and bullshitted until past the time the sun went down.

I also find myself avoiding any meals or foods that he generally liked or wanted to have around.  This is the longest I’ve gone in two years without eating biscuits and gravy.  Or breakfast, really, of any kind.  In the early parts, he always cooked up a big breakfast on the weekend, sometimes on the weekday if we had the stuff to do it.  He loved making breakfast, but he always made such a damn mess.

I miss the sweet things that he did for me back in the start of our relationship.  The thoughtful birthday and Christmas presents, the sweet emails or putting stuff to make me smile on my FB timeline.  I don’t know what I did to make him stop loving me the way he did in the beginning.  It’s as if, over time, I started to emanate some sort of negative energy and he just couldn’t stand to be close.

I don’t know if there was something I could have done to make him love me like he did in the beginning.  I guess I just wore him out.  He wore me out, t0o.  I think we both decided to end it at the same time.  It’s probably good we’re over, but it feels like my entire world is falling apart and I have to scurry around and pick up the broken pieces.

Long Overdue

Well, here I am…appears that I made it through winter without too many glitches.  The last month has seen lots of changes, most for the better.  Since it has been so long since I have posted, and I have so many things on my mind, this could be a long one.

Dr. Love and I broke up about three weeks ago.  It was probably a long time coming and I shouldn’t have been as shocked as I was.  Things hadn’t been bad, but there hadn’t been much happiness, joy, or love.  It had come to the point where we were mostly roommates, forced to share space, both of us being annoyed about it.  The breakup has been for the best, and has really awakened me to some changes I will have to make in my life if I want it to be a long, happy one.

Exactly two days after Dr. Love and I broke up, I rescued a very cute, sweet, terribly skinny and abused female Yorkie from a nearby city.  She had been dumped on a gravel road out in the country, and somehow made it to a farm where she was picked up by the family that lived there and taken temporarily to their sister’s house inside the city.  I found out about her through an email that was sent out by one of my mom’s co-workers and then sent to me.  I knew at once that I had to have her.

She was getting used to me, getting accustomed to Kizzie, and then last weekend I went to visit my sister.  QoB watched Birdie for me, and I anticipated no problems, but she is a very skittish dog.  Everything was going fine at QoB’s with Birdie and mom’s other dogs, when Birdie went walk-about around 8:00 p.m. on Saturday night.  I was heartbroken.  When I hadn’t received a call (she had a tag on and I filed a missing dog report with the local shelter) by Tuesday, I was convinced that she was gone forever.  It had snowed on Sunday night and I just didn’t see how that tiny dog could have made it.  My best hope was that someone picked her up and decided to keep her.

Much to my surprise, I received a call around 9:30 p.m. on Wednesday asking if I had lost my dog.  I was dumbfounded and in shock.  I had really written Birdie off, believing I would never see her again.  I went and picked her up and she was a mess.  She had lost all of the weight I had been able to put on her, and was covered in cockleburrs.  And of course, was filthy dirty.  She was so excited to see me, though, and I was overwhelmed.  I had said that I was going to get rid of her if I got her back, because I couldn’t deal with all of that drama and heartbreak.  When I brought her home, she got into a fight with Kizzie, which strengthened my resolve to find her another home.

By the following evening, after spending about 20 minutes with Birdie and Kizzie together, seeing how happy Birdie was, how happy I was to be around her, and how good it was to see Kizzie so excited, I knew that I was going to keep her and nurse her back to health, physically and emotionally.  This poor dog has been through hell and back.  When she was found, she was over a mile from where she had went missing.  I firmly believed that God wanted me to have this dog.  I don’t care how corny that sounds.  I believe.

With Dr. Love gone, I am trying to figure out what makes me happy. I keep telling everyone, “I’m fine, I’m great,” and maybe in some ways I am.  I feel more free, but I experience terrible loneliness and cry often.  I have spent a lot of time in my life being alone, and doing fine with it — it has been awhile though.  I know it will come in time.  I have to remind myself that I am grieving something that I had always thought would get better and last forever.

One of the things I know I am going to have to do if I want to attain any level of happiness is to stop f’ing with my Cymbalta.  I have taken it, it has worked well, and then I stop.  I just stop and I don’t know why.  Ok, I do know why…I feel better.  I convince myself that it is something other than Cymbalta that makes me feel good, and I just stop.  When the low days hit, I blame it on a lack of sleep or the weather.  It is not the friggin’ weather.  It is a damn chemical imbalance in my brain that can be righted with a small blue and white pill and I am so willful in this area it kills me.

In other “let’s-try-to-be-happy” news, I have been walking, eating right, trying to lose weight.  The progress is slow, and the knees are painful, but I want to live for a very long time and that isn’t going to happen if I don’t get at least some of this weight off.  I want to be more active and not be so restricted by my size.  I know I can get there.

I tried to quit smoking on January 10th and it is a damn uphill battle ever since.  Some days are better than others, some worse.  I just keep trying.  That’s all I can do.

I have been thinking about getting involved in a local church.  I feel that I had forsaken God for years, and find that He has not forsaken me.  I am humbly grateful for all I have and all I can give.  I’m sure there will be more on this topic later, as I try to find a church that I enjoy.  For now, talking to God makes me feel more whole than I can remember.

Jeff Buckley, Hallelujah

This is the song I wanted to put for this blog, but couldn’t find a video I could embed.  Try this link.