In god's honest truth, I am physically tired of remembering Eric. Of compartmentalizing memories. Remembering is VERY HARD WORK. I want to close the lid and say "I'm done." I don't want to think about him. I don't want to remember anything. I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want strangers to know that I had a husband. Answering that requires factual information that is also respectful to his death. Explanation requires lengthy sentences and careful thoughts. Thinking gets better when there are good dialogues, but good dialogues are energy expenditures. Now, I simply prefer listening to music over talking. I don't like listening to my voice that much anymore.
Perhaps it is a form of escapism. I respect my need for space and an escape whenever I feel like it. The fact is, I will never be devoid of memories of my husband. An escape from it is not only smart and healthy, but brave.
Ever feel like you're damaged goods? I was talking about that with a friend and he said, "Daisy, we are all damaged goods one way or another." There might be merit to that statement. Since no person is "perfect," in essence, everyone is "damaged" one way or another. It's not good or bad; there needs not be a value judgement.
|Winter Sojourn 2011|
It will be Eric's birthday (again) in a few days, a day he never liked to celebrate in the recent near-decade because it painfully reminded him of yet another year passed and his inability to do anything he loved to do, to live life. It was impossible for others to remotely comprehend even a hairline fraction of what that meant. I hated answering the question "what did you guys do to celebrate his birthday?" Sometimes I simply lied about it. As much as I could, I avoided answering that dreadful question. Diversion is a great life skill.
I am immensely grateful that my husband is eternally free of agony of any form.
Still, I find internal resentment that I cannot explain. I find myself extremely intolerant of whining, entitlement, laziness and incompetence. Especially entitlement and laziness. I find this world brutally unfair. I feel Eric's life cheated and robbed. I feel an overwhelming burden that I never asked for; cards dealt to me and a game I was forced to play in; strength and grace buried that would otherwise take me five lifetimes to uncover.
I also honor completely that I have only one life to live: mine. There is no time to waste. The illusion of control over one's own life is just that: A complete illusion, and delusion. The sooner we let go of the need to exert control, the sooner we can live. It is that simple.