It's been quite a long time since Your Humble Hostess has written on this here blog. If the truth be told, I have had little inclination to write about the things I used to. Grief is exhausting, and leaves little room in the soul for ranting about politics. It's not that I don't care anymore, it's that I ranted into the wilderness for the better part of a decade, and where did it get us?
Those of you who are my Facebook friends know that I haven't been silent. But between the Job That Ate My Life, a bad case of Widow Brain that has left me virtually unable to concentrate on the impossible project I've been handed at my job, and the emotional struggle of feeling neither here nor there as I prepare to take a leap of faith, ditch it all, buy health insurance on whatever is left of the health care exchanges after the GOP and Supreme Court get through with them, sell my house, pack up the cats and head south to North Carolina, where frankly, they need my vote desperately.
Shortly after Mr. Brilliant died, I had set up a new blog called Don't Call Me a Widow. Oh, I was fine, yes indeedy I was. None of that grief stuff that my mother had done for twelve years for me, nosirree. I had dinner with friends at restaurants that Mr. B. didn't like. I cooked things he would never eat. To be honest, it was a relief for a short time to have it all over with and to not have to be the recipient of someone's frustrated rage at being ill and disappointed.
That lasted about six months.
Two weeks after Mr. B's death, I joined a Meetup for widows and widowers. I met several very cool women, and professed my I'm-just-fineness. The woman who runs the group, who lost her husband at 42 from lung cancer, patted me on the back and said, "Oh, honey, you're still numb. It hasn't hit you yet."
But at about six months, it did.
For lo these twenty months now, I've been going nonstop. Until recently, when my job role changed and I began reporting to someone in Germany, where they have a workers council and take their 40 hour weeks very seriously, I continued to work 50, 60, 70 hours a week. I went out. I had a lot of remodeling done in the house. I went to Italy with friends. This spring I went to Prague for work. I got rid of a ton of stuff, donating and freecycling as much as I could. Now I'm prepping the house to sell so I can head south. If I've been given this blank slate on which to write a new start, it can't be in a place where a mere trip to the dentist is full of "We used to buy crumb cake here" and "Remember when we lived here and had parties?" and "Remember how good the chow fun was here?" and just too damn many memories. I moved to Bergen County, NJ to be with Mr. Brilliant and even though I've been here 32 years, it just doesn't feel like I belong here anymore.
It's not that life is so bad. It's not even that I'm lonely. I've always been able to enjoy my own company. It's just that I've become an impostor in my own life.
I don't know what the future holds. I'm toying with the idea of writing a book about this whole experience. I might start a blog about being a Tarheel transplant. I might finish my Great Sweeping Novel. Or something else.
I don't know if anyone even still reads this blog, which is kind of sad after all these years. But things change. Life changes. And then we're gone. The question for me now, not to get all Gandalf on you, is to decide what to do with the time that has been given to me.
Labels: personal musings