Jen

I am so, so sorry. ((((Hugs))))) Peace to you and Bella...

Still on Sondheim. Sorry, it's Tony Week. "No One is Alone," from the original production of Into the Woods:

Thank you all. If you can spare any prayers or thoughts for Kate and her two boys, as well as Jeremy's whole family, I know they'd appreciate it.

This is where I am today: "Being Alive," from Sondheim's Company: lyrics: http://www.songlyrics.com/stephen-sondheim/being-alive-lyrics/ Alone is alone, not alive...

I want to tell you all that I've read every single response, and I'm grateful for them. I want to respond, but tonight I can't-- just found out that a sweet friend of mine from high school died in a plane crash today. 41 years old, a wife and two small boys, a twin brother-- I can't stand it. Thank you all for being here. I'm so sorry any of us have to be.

Fuck death. Fuck that I lost a dear friend today, and I never got to see him again. Fuck that there's a new member in our club. Fuck all this shit.

I was chatting with some friends on Facebook, and mentioned an ad that keeps popping up in my feed-- it's for an online counseling service, it says "You deserve to be happy," and it pisses me off every time I see it. What the hell difference does it make if I "deserve" to be happy? Who doesn't deserve happiness? It doesn't mean we get it. I have no expectation of ever being truly happy ever again. I'm okay, but that just means I'm not mired in despair. I have no future, nothing to look forward to, and I'd be perfectly content knowing that an meteoroid was going to fall on me tomorrow, as long as no one else got hurt. One of my friends replied, "Okay is okay." Um... yeah, it's okay. It's not good. It's definitely not great. It's all right for today, but for tomorrow and next week and next year and for the next three or four or five DECADES??? Just... "okay"? When I answered (basically with the above question), she responded, "Some people never have any happiness at all." That shut me up-- I closed FB and came here. I guess that's true... some people have nothing but misery throughout their entire lives. I had happiness. I had a husband who thought the sun rose and set over my head. I had deep and abiding love. I was grateful-- maybe not as grateful as I could have been, I took it for granted, because I thought I could. I thought I had time. But then he died, and I was shattered, and I've been trying to put myself back together ever since. In the past year I've gone through shock, anger, despair, depression, confusion-- we all know the road through hell intimately, don't we? I've had brief moments of hope, a few flashes of color, a brief space of something that came perilously close to joy, but vanished as soon as I tried to grab hold of it. Now everything is grey and dull-- it's like being in the middle of an infinite, featureless desert, nothing but colorless sand from horizon to horizon, and no matter how far or how fast I walk, I'm always at the exact center. It really doesn't admit much possibility of happiness. But I had happiness, yes? Once upon a time? So even if I never have any in this life again, I should be grateful for what I had and stop bemoaning my fate-- right? I am grateful, I truly am, but I bitterly resent the twist of fate that brought me here. Does that make me a bad person? An unfeeling one? One thing I do know-- it's time to take my grief inward. No one wants to hear it anymore. Hell, I'm sick of it. I don't want to be here either. I need to just accept that okay is the best I can hope for, that happiness is beyond my reach, and stop bitching about it.

"My heart is sick and sad." Yes, that's me too. I'm so, so sorry. Every morning I watch the sky get lighter in my bedroom window and think, Oh, God, not another day. What little hope I found in the past year is gone now. I don't know how long I can keep this up, I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and not because I want to. It's duty, nothing more. I do have kids, which you'd think would give my life some meaning, but right now-- it doesn't. I'm sure I'm a terrible person for admitting that, but... that's where I am. So many hugs, Candace. Peace to you...

I wish I had something concrete... hang on, sweetie. (((((((HUGS))))))))

I miss it so, so much-- not just the physical (though that torments me too), but the certainty of knowing that I mattered to someone. I know I matter to a lot of people, but I'm not the most important person in anyone's world anymore-- well, my kids, I guess, but it's not the same. I was cherished. I was beloved, and I loved with all my heart. Now I'm sad, empty, and lonely. I think that's all I'll ever be. Donna is right, love does make the world go 'round, and I don't really want to be here without it.

Oh, hugs, hugs. I wish I knew of a magic fix. Thinking of you...

I climbed a mountain today. I feel like I climb one every day, but this time I literally did climb a mountain: http://www.arkansasstateparks.com/things-to-do/trails/west-summit-trail-39/ . I'm kind of amazed that I didn't break an ankle or my neck. It's not a trail so much as a muddy track between great piles of boulders that no one ever bothered to blaze a proper trail through-- they just left the occasional streak of yellow paint to tell you you're still going the right way, but even that's fairly subjective. It occurred to me, pretty quickly, that climbing this big hill is a lot like the journey we're all on, treacherous and hard as hell. The path is rocky and steep, and you can't look very far ahead-- it's too discouraging, and you have to concentrate on where you're putting your foot with each and every step. You hold on where you can, grabbing a rock or a tree or even a stranger's hand when you feel the ground start to shift beneath you, but ultimately you have to continue the climb alone. You're too focused on your own snail-like progress to offer much to others on the trail-- just a nod, I see you, good on you, keep going. You wish them well, you might even strike up a conversation, make a brief connection, but then you hit a particularly rough stretch-- a stairway of precariously perched boulders, almost vertical, -- and you draw away again, clambering upward, stopping every few feet to catch your breath and slow your hammering heart. You ask yourself, "What in hell was I thinking? I can't do this, I can't climb another step." But then you do-- you pick yourself up, drag yourself forward, even while you're wondering why you're doing it. You tell yourself you can stop at any time, you can turn around and head back down-- and really, what's the point of going further? But then you look out at the valley below, you see how far you've come and you think about how you'll feel if you give up now. Worse than if you'd never tried, maybe, so you press on, ignoring the stitch in your side and the fitter folk who jog effortlessly past you. You pause when you need to, you breathe deeply and drink water, and once or twice you feel dimly grateful that no one can tell if the moisture running down your face is sweat or tears. Finally, finally, you reach the top. You've struggled to get to this point-- and here you are! But there's no one waiting to congratulate you, to greet you with a hug and a proud smile, no one to say "I knew you could do it!" There's only you, and the sky, and a hawk sailing on the thermals high above. The view is breathtaking, it should be inspiring, but instead it's lonely and desolate. You feel so small, just a speck of unregarded humanity, and any sense of accomplishment is lost in the realization that you now have to go back, all the way you came, only now the slope goes the other way and the boulders seem twice as big. You have no choice: you can accept reality, or sit up here and starve. Clearly, the latter isn't tenable, so you sigh and start to pick your way cautiously down from the summit. Gravity seems to have increased. More than once you miss your footing, you slip and almost fall. But you manage to right yourself, you keep going, and gradually you feel your confidence inching up. You can do this. You are doing it. It's still hard-- your muscles ache with unaccustomed exertion and tension, and in unexpected places; you stop to rest several times, and you gulp down the last of your water. But you find that you can raise your head more often, you see the other people on the path with you, and you're even able to offer some encouragement-- "I did it, so can you." Then, all at once, the trail levels out, you're on asphalt and you can see your car. You made it, there and back again-- but nothing has changed, has it? You still have to carry yourself wherever you're going next-- to the store, back home. Roads go ever ever on, Tolkien says, and your journey continues, even as the mountain recedes in the rearview mirror. But surely you're allowed a few moments of pride? You climbed a mountain, after all, and that's progress-- even if nobody in the whole world sees or cares, even if there are a thousand more exhausting ascents in front of you. You did it, step by step, and you'll keep going, because that's what you have to do. That's what life does, even when you don't want it to. One day it will be your turn to stop-- but for now, all you can do is climb.

(((((Hugs))))) The bbq sounds wonderful.

Hugs to you...

I didn't set a date or a time limit-- honestly, I expected to wear mine forever. I tried switching to the other hand, but that felt wrong. Finally, on New Year's Eve, I realized I didn't feel married anymore, and my ring brought me more pain than anything else when I looked at it. I took it off, and the silver chain I'd worn since Jim died (he gave me an identical one when we were 14, it was sort of a pre-promise gift)-- I hung both our rings on the chain and then hung the chain on his urn. My ring fits inside his perfectly, and that's just where they're meant to be. I do wear a-- a mourning ring, maybe? Memory ring?-- on my right hand; it's silver, like our rings, and it has a tiny amethyst (our anniversary was in February). Just my personal experience. There's no right answer. (((((HUGS)))))

I cried when I read this-- grateful tears. Thank you for saying this. I needed to hear it from the outside, so to speak-- I don't have the internal resources to say it to myself and believe it. Maybe that will change...

I do laugh occasionally, and it surprises me when I do. At least I don't feel guilty about it now. Mostly I just feel... numb. ((((Hugs))))) Thank you for having my back. I really do appreciate it. That goes for all of you-- I keep saying it's my kids who keep me here, but that's not entirely true. Love you guys. Seriously.

Oh, you have got to be freaking kidding me!!! That is so, so wrong-- horrible, hateful bureaucrats!! (((((((HUGS))))))))) Surely sanity will prevail...

Nooooo!! Not what I wanted to see!! But I'm serious, now that I've been to the city, I *have* to go back-- so rest assured, I will track you down!! (((((HUGS))))

I'm appalled and horrified at the legal outcome-- so not right-- but I'm glad you're recovering. (((((((HUGS))))))))

I've been listening to Phantom. I know it's cliche, I don't care. I still love it. These are the songs that resonate right now: "Think of Me" "All I Ask of You" Not, for some reason, "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again." Not tonight. Weird.

Not a soul, sigh. I've never had a lot of friends, and even fewer male ones. Just have to learn to accept life as a celibate, I guess. It sucks.

I very much doubt your dh would ever want you to feel guilty for not being miserable. ((((Hugs))) I'm so glad you've found love and some peace.

Sleep is the only thing I look forward to, when I can manage it. (Insomnia sucks!) Unconsciousness is such a relief. When I wake up, it's all I can do to keep from bursting into tears-- and sometimes I fail. Day after endless day... I wish it would just end.

(((((((HUGS)))))))))