Coffee is Coffee

I just got finished walking Sammy, my mother’s toy poodle. There is something to be said about the way a dog can help me through some of my grief. I have been away from home for three days and that is three days more than I can stand being away from home.

Last night, I went to bed at 9:30 and cried for hours. I cried all of the tears I have suppressed for the past couple of days. Sammy handled me like a pro, though, lapping the tears off of my eyes, curling up in that space that gets created when you spoon alone. Of course, his minscule, toy-poodly self fit in the curve of my neck.

Last night, the pain of Chris’ absense was too much for me to bear. I pictured myself on the bed with my wrists slit, stepping in front of the bus, getting cancer, murdered, etc... None of it mattered, though, because once I pictured my family and friends grieving, I realized, as I always do, that I’m in this lifetime for the long haul.

What hurts the most is that Chris can’t answer me. He can’t talk to me. We can’t converse about what happened to him and why. I know that sounds ridiculous. I don’t seriously believe that can happen, but it’s what makes me cry the most. I miss conversing with him.

I also have some guilt. I think I may be about to meet and have a cup of coffee with Internet Guy, the man I have been e-mailing with for the past seven months. I had never mentioned Chris to him or that I had been married before. Before I left for the weekend, I e-mailed him about Chris’ death, explaining that it’s the reason I have canceled every time we talked about meeting. I wanted him to know that I do want to meet him, but that I’m in the midst of a very difficult time. He sent me the lovliest of replies in which he reassured me that I need not feel pressured in the least and that he completely understands. He seems like a really nice guy.

This past weekend was extremely difficult. I tried to keep my composure when all I really wanted to do was wail. I so want to be ready to have wonderful, joyful days and nights, as scary as that feels for me. I am in the midst of a boxing match and guilt is in the other corner, standing six feet three and weighting 265 pounds. Ding!

A couple of my friends/family have suggested that I try a different, less addictive anti-depressant. I could, I suppose. I want to wait until after the holidays, though, because if I’m only falling apart because of them, that means I can go this on my own by renting comedies and singing. I suspect that I can.

Is it time for a man? Is it not? I don’t know. What I keep forgetting is that coffee is coffee. It isn’t marriage.