The Present Moment

I moved into my new apartment fifteen days ago and I haven’t stopped running, running, running since. Running is my way of suppressing and for the first thirteen days, I didn’t shed a tear. In fact, I felt euphoric and as though I was completely done grieving. However, I have enough experience with grief at this point to know that when I feel like that, I can pretty much thank the universe and know that the end of grief will never arrive. My crashes become fewer and farther between, but I am learning that sadness is just a part of my story – our story – and I need to learn to welcome my retreats into despair with and open mind and open arms.

The third anniversary of the death of my husband is almost upon me. November 19 is when we received his diagnosis, and try as I might to be unaffected by the past, I find myself regressing into fetal position on my living room chair wondering why this tragedy befell Chris and why his death befell his loved ones. I’m okay, though. I want to cry when I’m crying. There is no relief – only the cloak of sleep that claims me each night when I’m all cried out and void of any ability what-so-ever to bring myself back up.

By day, I’m quite cheerful, working alongside a group of people whose company I cherish. We’re a fun cluster of folk, working and passing the day with good humor and camaraderie. The gym continues to keep me uplifted, albeit in considerable pain.

I had a proud evening Monday. I left work knowing that I wasn’t going to go one step in the direction of the gym. I felt horrible. I had almost allowed myself to revel in my sad, angry, self-pitying state of mind. My anger had reached such levels that I felt like kicking in doors and smashing my possessions. The impulses became too much for me to bear, so I thought I would stop by City Sports on my way home and buy some new workout clothes, which is a very effective way for me to get myself through the gym doors. I found two lovely pieces for less than forty dollars and headed toward home to see if I could coax myself out my door and into the gym. Caught between not wanting to go to the gym and not wanting to stay home, I finally erupted into a pool of tears, which is really what I needed to do in order to let go of the pain and anxiety that had amassed. Once the wave passed, I picked myself up, got dressed and headed to the gym where I had a very tough, very challenging workout. My anger did not begin to dissipate until two hours in.

For a while, I have been telling myself either that I want a boyfriend or that I don’t want a boyfriend. There is a discrepancy with the black and white nature of that thought pattern. The truth is that I do want a man in my life. The truth is also that I am not ready for a relationship with another man. I’m beginning to believe the popular 5-year guideline perspective. For now, I am going to stop thinking and have some faith that I will someday be able to love another man. I have to believe that. The alternative suggests that my golden years will be spent sitting in front of my living room window, gazing out over the landscape, hurting, reflecting, and yearning for my lost love.

I don’t want to be that person and I have a feeling that I have more control over my life than I am willing to entertain at the present moment.