I'm feeling something ... not sure exactly what it is. But there's a shift and it's not entirely pleasant or positive. Could be caused by many things but I find I'm reacting ... to things, to people, to their social media posts, to their blogs ... differently than I normally would. My compassion level seems to have taken a hit. Have I spent too much time making sure others were ok while not addressing my own grief? Perhaps.
The house is very quiet now. Except for those 'house' sounds. You know, the ones you don't usually hear because the tv is on and people are around. Jer moved out in September, so the quiet is more intense. I know that's easily fixed by just turning something 'on' but I'm kind of liking this quiet so maybe I'll just let it be. Perhaps.
I can retire with full 30 year benefits next January. Part of me thinks it would be wonderful. No alarm. None of those 'work issues'. But part of me is frightened. Work is my main 'social' outlet. Sad, huh? I talk and interact with people all day long there. When I stop working it will just be me. Alone. Here in this house. Ah, these life decisions. Retirement? Perhaps.
I thought I had already dealt with my "aloneness" ... wrote a blog about it in Widowed Village nearly two years ago. But I guess there's a transition with that, too. This aloneness feels different. It's more final. It's my life. And I have to keep pushing those ugly thoughts aside. Like ... if something happens to me how long would I lie here before anyone noticed I was missing? Ugh. Not a pleasant thought at all. I think I'll worry about that another time. Perhaps.
You may have noticed I've used the term "house" instead of "home" in here. Michele's keynote speech at the recent Tampa Camp Widow addressed making our house a home. It hit home with me (no pun intended). My dear Brave Girls spread that same message. And I'm trying. Really, I am. I am not proud of the way I have lived since Vern died. It's been my ugly little secret. Well, not so little. It's pretty big, actually. I have boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff everywhere. Mostly unopened mail. I can't tell you why. I don't understand it myself. I just have had a need to ignore it ... to pick it up out of the mail box and put it on the counter until it becomes too much and gets moved into yet another box. So I'm working on it. One box at a time. Should I have talked early on to a counselor about why I'm behaving this way? Perhaps.
And I just realized that all of these things settling into my thoughts right now may just be related to timing. May 4 is 2 weeks from today. May 4 ... the day that everything changed. It may have been 4 years ago, but I can go back to those exact moments in a heartbeat. I can see the MRI, hear the conversation, see his face, feel his fears. Yes, maybe my melancholy is just related to timing. Perhaps.