Half Bulemic

I remember feeling as though my widowhood was a horrible dream. I used to wake up every morning feeling relieved that I was only dreaming. For a few seconds each morning, I felt happy that Chris was right by my side. Then I would think, “My husband is dead.”, and open up the anxiety floodgates.

Sometimes I feel self-imposed pressure to stop grieving. I feel like nobody can really understand that I still suffer from anxiety as a direct result of Chris’ illness and death. I still feel the aftershocks. I think I always will.

I live in fear that my doctor will stop prescribing Ativan for me, that she’ll think I’m in danger of becoming an addict, which is so completely absurd. My last prescription of 30 pills took me six months to consume. I just take half a pill whenever I can’t control my nervousness in other ways, which is pretty rare. I run, bike, box, sing, study and take Ativan to control my anxiety and each of the activities work very well. Oh yeah, and sometimes I eat, nonstop, which, in psychology, would be considered maladaptive behavior. Delicious maladaptive behavior, but maladaptive, no less. Even so, my idea of nonstop eating is pretty low-cal. I mean, I binge on steamed broccoli, cauliflower and pickles, all considered to have zero Weight Watchers points, which I am quite thankful for, since I never really got the hang of purging, anyway.

My nerves are wreaking havoc tonight. I’m generally okay, but nervous. I have been missing Chris a lot and crying again at night. I don’t help it. Notice my careful choice of the word “don’t.” Not helping it is a choice. I’m still petrified at the thought of letting go. How do you let go of a person when you feel like you just spent all day yesterday with him? Time is all over the place. Time is nonexistent, really, at least over there.

Yes, my grief has subsided significantly since day one. I almost never cry now. I cried all day long, every day, for so long that dehydration became my way of life.

I’m going to see Clay every other week, again. I needed time away to organize my thoughts and now I see the importance of his presence in my life. I do still need to talk about it. I do still need somebody to be okay with me talking (and/or crying) about it. I need permission to still be grieving, even if other people are tired of my story or don’t fully understand that breathing still doesn’t come easy for me. It comes, though. There was a time when it didn’t.

Well, I’m not done overeating tonight. I’m going to forage through my trash barrel. (Just kidding!) I am going to forage through my cabinets and refrigerator, though. I can almost taste the crunchy peanut butter from here.

Beyond grief, work is good, my friends are good, life is good.

Shneed