The New Pink

I cut my Paxil dose in half a couple of weeks ago and this week and next, I will only be taking a quarter of a pill. You may remember that I tried to quit cold-turkey a few weeks ago, more out of internalized rage than to be free of the drug, unfortunately. Sometimes my anger swallows me up and I just want to punish myself. I’m not ashamed. Everybody has those reactive qualities. Whether they admit it or not is a whole other story.

Extreme anger and sadness are what I have been feeling for the past week. Rage and despair have become the flavors of the month, I’m afraid. Whatever. Let them take me over. I really don’t give a fuck anymore. If I can be taken over, batted around, turned inside out, ripped open and jumped on at the whim of my grief, then what the fuck can I do about it? Nothing. Just suck it up, try not to hate myself for no apparent reason and continue to move forward.

There’s a scene in “A Beautiful Mind” when John Nash realizes that if he tries really hard, he can ignore the fictitious people he has been seeing. He says something about not breathing life into them or not acknowledging them or something like that. I feel that way. My grief is with me 24/7 and some days, though I try to ignore it, grief is right on my heels and it catches up with me the moment I walk through the door.

No husband. No best friend. Nobody there supporting me, smiling at me, cherishing me, sharing in my humor or cooking up a whole lot of love in the form of carefully designed, aesthetically pleasing culinary art.

I feel alone and feeling alone makes me cry. I just want to hide.

I still ask myself, “How can this be?” Chris was my joy. He was my whole world. We really did do everything right together. There was strength in us. I don’t understand.

I hate that I had everything I ever wanted in the form of a loving husband and now he’s gone.

I bumped into Erin, an adorable, sweet acquaintance of mine, on the way home from work yesterday. i was walking, trying to decide on a route when she said my name...my old name...out loud stopping me in my tracks. We chatted for a while and then I decided that wherever she was walking, I would walk with her until our routes split. We walked and talked all the way to Copley Square and then went our separate ways.

The thing about Erin is that she is as real as real gets. I truly appreciate that in a person. Erin is life affirming, death affirming, self-loathing affirming, fucked-up widow affirming. No matter what you have to say, Erin is okay with it.

As we walked and talked down the middle strip of Comm Ave, we began to talk about death. Erin survived her own summer of death. I believe she had some very close friends die of cancer all during the same summer. Of course it changed her profoundly. We laughed about death on the way up the street. Erin teased me, saying, “Death, death, death this, death that. It’s always death, death, death with you. That’s all you EVER talk about.” I replied, “Death is the new pink.” We laughed.

As we were saying our goodbyes, Erin lifted her hand, placed it on my face and said, “Are you dating? You are so adorable and I really hope that you date again.” I love that she wasn’t afraid to say that to me and without a trace of impatience or expectation in her voice. That’s a gift not many people possess. Maybe your closest friends can pull it off, but certainly not many acquaintances.