6 weeks

It seems I've reached the point where I am now counting weeks instead of days.  That fact makes me a little sad.

This past week, I was traveling for almost all of it.  My daughter and I and my brother (thank God for him) and the boyfriend, Tom, drove two vehicles from Huntington, West Virginia to Salem, Oregon, our home.

Something about being away helped me immensely.  The air travel portion was the worst, getting there by plane, being stuck in a tube, being patted down by strangers, being stuck for hours amongst others.  The experience was draining, and I found that several times I needed to block off sensory input.  I had to put my face in my hands, close my eyes, plug my ears, and just breathe.  Just listen to myself breathe.  That seemed to help.

Separating from this house and the overwhelming job of getting moved out of this mess is a big help.  I was able to breathe a little different air.  I was able to distance myself just a little.  Aside from that, I was pissed as soon as I came into the house.  I was right back where I was.  I can't really begin to heal until I remove myself from this place.  Father, please come speedily. Please make this one change happen.  If you want me to go to Israel, show me that path.  If you want me stay here, give me this house, and help me make it mine.  What do you want me to do? Where do you want me to go?  Please get me out of here.

I miss Storm every day.  Every single day.  Sometimes so much that I just sit down and cry.  The mornings still suck.  Every day, having to wake up and realize yet again that I am alone, and that my husband chose to exit stage left.  He left me here on purpose, and that will never change.  That will never alter.  My heart will never heal from it.

Living in this house makes it real every day.  There's no place without memories.  The shower.  The bedroom.  The kitchen.  My roses.  My garden.  I feel emotionally paralyzed because inside every cupboard and behind every door is a memory, waiting to spring itself on me and make me sad all over.  Make me remember the pain and sorrow, the suffering, the misery, the anger.  Worse...the love, the beauty, the joy, the ecstasy, and the contentment that is all lost.   Lost and gone and forever.  Once upon a time, I had a lovely life.  Now I am just a shattered and broken soul, trying to find a way.  I am shards of glass in a jar...pretty, but useless.

Day 35

Tonight I get on an airplane and fly to my daughter in West Virginia.  If all goes well, I will be on the way back with her and my grandchildren by Saturday evening.  Please pray that all goes well.

I am not wanting to take this trip.  Last night I had a rather large breakdown in the bathtub.  I am not sure how I long I stood there in the water, crying hysterically, my hand pressed against my mouth. 

This was supposed to be our vacation, Storm and mine.  Not only that, but the tension of my daughter leaving her husband, the potential for disaster, is huge, and the unknown is making me crazy.  I'm afraid I'm going to break down on the plane or in the airport, and I don't want to do that in a situation that might be dangerous. 

I want to hold my grandbabies so badly.  I want to love them and keep them close.  Please pray for me.

4 weeks

I can't believe it has been four weeks since I've talked to Storm.  I can't believe I've lived four weeks without Storm. One month seems like such an unbearably long time to be without him. 

Some days are ok.  Some days I cry once or twice, and then move on.  Today was not that day.

Today was the day when everything was way more complicated than it should be.  Today, everything upset me.

Last night, I couldn't help remember that horrible night, flashing back to it.  I couldn't help seeing it over and over.  I was crying before my bath, and crying after, and crying during, and even crying during my bath time ice cream.  I went to bed exhausted, and got up feeling stuffed up and sick to my stomach knowing I had gotten to the one month mark. 

Two days after Storm died, we had to take Bunny, our white dog, to the vet.  She had lost a tremendous amount of weight.  She looked like she had been through a dog holocaust.  I remember sitting there feeling overwhelmed with emotion, overwhelmed with frustration, worried about money, worried about my dog, and trying not to actively grieve for my husband in the veterinarian waiting room.

We had to go back the next day, because of money, but we were able to save her life.  I still love my dog.  I still have my dog.

Bunny

 

Flash forward to four weeks later.  My daughter has adopted a gray Maine coon cat that has been abandoned in our neighborhood.  This cat is a lovely shade of gray and white, and very friendly.  So far, we've had zero problems trying to integrate him into the household.  My daughter, in need of someone to love right now, has become quite attached.  He got sick.  No explanation.  Suddenly, he was off of his food and water, and laying about looking miserable.  I asked my daughter if she wanted to take him to the vet, and she agreed.  From the look on her face, like losing him would upset her so much, I knew we had to go.  We've already lost enough. 

I didn't expect the flood of emotion that came over me at this.  The cat is not that sick, though the money was earmarked for other things, and amazingly enough, I still cannot benefit from the life insurance proceeds.  (Banks can really ruin your day.)  Sitting there in that office again, for an hour and a half waiting for the vet, on the one month anniversary of the day he died, made me feel like I felt that first day.  I tried to make some calls and manage some business, and that was too complicated.  So I just finally sat down and starting weeping in the chair.  I hate crying in public.  Hell, I hate crying, period.  That's when they called us back, of course.

On the way home, I found myself bitching at the traffic, bitching about the money, bitching about the problems I'm having getting my LOA and my short-term disability approved.  I so badly just wanted to shut my damn mouth, and I couldn't stop the pain and stress from pouring out.  Even though I could tell I was impacting my daughter, I still couldn't shut the hell up. 

My family came over, wonderful people that they are, and helped install my new TV.  Storm and I bought it so that we could go to bed together and be entertained since our shifts did not quite mesh.  Now I'll use it to help me sleep alone. I had to be very quiet.  I didn't want to spew venom at people who were doing good for me, but I just felt like bitching. 

I just hurt so much inside.  All the time.  Every day.  It never stops.  It doesn't stop when I'm eating.  It doesn't stop when I'm sleeping.  It doesn't stop when I'm living.  I just always hurt and I always miss him so much.  Sometimes I smile or laugh through it.  Sometimes I function.  Sometimes I just pretend to feel better.  Fake it till you make it.  Put up a good front.  I kept thinking I was feeling so much better lately, but I was just lying to myself.  This day was horrible, and it was entirely what was going on inside of me that made it that way.  I couldn't stop crying today.  I couldn't stop feeling this way. 

I am so tired of crying.  Crying is not something I like to do, it's something I hate.  I hate it so much, and I do it all the time now.  I can't not.  I don't even try to stop it.  It just pours out of me in great wet buckets.  I constantly feel dehydrated.  I constantly need tissues. 

I know that I'm not angry at the traffic, or the money, or the LOA issues, or anything else.  I'm angry that my beautiful life is in shatters and tatters, I am angry at my husband, I'm angry that my life is now so depressing that having emotional breakdowns in public has become commonplace. 

I want my life back.  I know that will never happen, but I want my life back. 

Day 25

Three weeks.

A little more than three weeks ago, I was a very happy wife.  Being a wife, being Storm's wife, was my whole world, and that life is gone to me now.  It was my identity.  It's who I was; Mrs. Storm Treasure.  I was proud of my wife-ing.  I was content in my life.  I felt like my life was full of richness and beauty, and my husband and I had plans of buying a home and creating a wonderful future for ourselves.  We were going to plant my roses all around the house.  Literally, he promised me a rose garden.   My life was so great, I was always looking forward.  Now...I'm just living...breathing...trying to get through this day. 

These are the shards of my life.  Well, really, it's a glass vase full of glass chunks.  As a final parting gift before he took his life, my husband broke my desk, which had a tempered glass top.  The pieces were scattered around my room for four days until I got back into my house.  My daughter and I had to sweep them up.  It took a long time.  We swept and swept.  We shook out clothes and rugs and tried to capture every piece of glass.  As I picked them up with Elizabeth, I told her that they were the shards of my life.  She agreed it was an interesting metaphor.

A week later, I decided to keep them.  I could never repair them.  No matter how much glue I used, no matter how I were to try, I could never glue this back together again.  I could never fix this.  Just like my life.  It's just like my life.

Just like my painful memories, I am still finding these shards.  Sometimes they lodge in my foot, or I see them glittering in the light reflecting on the floor.  Sometimes I find them in drawers and they fall out of clothes.  It often seems to be when I am thinking a new thought, or hurting a new hurt.  Each time I drop it in the jar: another shard of my life.  Eventually I will have gathered all of the shards of my life together.  Then what?

I would like to buy a glass rose to put inside, and an engraving of Storm's name, and dates.  I would also like to figure a lid for it.  I haven't gotten that far yet.  One of these days, when I have survived this hurt, and I am not so intensely hurt and angry, I hope to be able to look at it and feel...something new inside.  Right now....right now I'm as broken inside as the shards in this vase.

Shards of my Life

Day 17

I saw the counselor for the first time today.  It seems to have just opened the scab.  On the one hand, it felt good to talk about it with someone who didn't know Storm, and who didn't love him, and who wouldn't be hurt by hearing me express myself.   It was also good that I was able to get my short term disability and my LOA paperwork taken care of.  On the other hand, it hurt me....it made it so real, and my future still so uncertain.  I'm glad to have the time off nearly settled.  I need all the help I can get. 

I've been crying the whole evening.  It started with last night's bath.

Often I wonder if I am going insane.  I see the world through my practical eyes and my new crazy lady eyes at the same time.  On the one hand, I know I have to take care of myself.  I take a bath every night.  I soak in it at least half an hour.  I spend some time crying and reading my Bible and just thinking.  (Hamster wheels squeaking in my mind.) Somewhere, inside the person that I once was, there's someone who knows I still need taking care of, and my husband is not here to do it. So I force myself to get up...to put my hair up...to take the bath...even though all I want to do is go to bed and cry.

Last night I cried in the tub.  Not the regular leaking tears that I seem to always find on my face, but real tears.  Real pain.  Like it just happened.  Like that first nightmare day.  Like a fog that came over me.   I woke up today in that same painful place, still feeling the pain all over again, the emptiness and the deep, lasting loneliness.

This morning I cried getting out of bed...drinking my coffee...driving to the doctor.  I just cried.  When I got home I felt ok.  I got most of the closet clean, my desk cleared, and gave away several unwanted items.  Still, late at night, trying to figure out what to eat, I am in tears.  My husband took care of food.  He figured what was for dinner.  He commanded my daughter to cook it.  He inquired into whether I enjoyed it, was I fed?  He made sure I remembered lunch/breakfast.  He took care of food.  I never had to think about it.  Now, making dinner, is a trial.  It's such a trial. 

In a way, I'm kinda mad.  Before I met him, I was pretty cool with my frozen dinners, and my quicky sandwiches, my Subway and my occasional Burger King.  Now, going into the kitchen, it just makes me cry.  Every pack of instant mashers makes me cry.  Every corn dog, every frozen egg roll, every compromise on good eating makes me cry.  Storm taught me to love good food...and then took it away from me.  In my shattered life, sometimes I cannot put together even the simplest meal. 

That was the straw.  After managing the shards of my life (more on that later) and finishing today's hard chores, realizing I still had to figure out food at 11 at night was more than I could take.  I started crying, and I haven't stopped since.  Why is this so fucking hard?  I'm a grown ass woman.  I should be able to make a fresh meal out of meat and potatoes and not have a nervous breakdown in the kitchen.  I should be able to open the fridge and not cry.

I want to start looking at the good in these.  I am very grateful for my family today.  Today they kept me distracted, made the corn dog I eventually ate, and made sure they were there to listen.  I am also grateful for my pets.  As soon as I start crying, there's guaranteed to be a furry critter there to comfort me.  Today, as I lay on my bed and cried, I had three dogs and a cat keeping me company. 

I hope things start getting better.  Today was back to square one.  Let's hope that doesn't happen every time I see the doc.  I don't want to cry all the time.