I got dressed, brushed my hair, and headed out to have my eyebrows done. Walking into the mostly empty nail salon, I said my usual, "eyebrows please?" The girl at the front desk was busy with a Dremel tool sanding away on her customer, and barely gave me a glance. I looked back into the shop and there were two other employees sitting in the foot massage chairs just hanging out. Since no one jumped up to help me, I assumed that waxing was not part of their repertoire.
Once again I asked the front desk girl if it would be much of a wait. "Just give me a few minutes", she responded, sounding disinterested. "Never mind", I replied, "I can see that you're busy". And out the door I went, making it to my car before bursting into tears.
Obviously something was wrong. I took a moment to assess the situation; there had been nothing in my closet I wanted to wear this morning so I had on a baggy, wrinkled, green sweater. I had decided once again to quit having my decaf coffee in the morning, so maybe I was a little out of sorts. And I was mad at Harry for dying. What? I let myself yell at him as I drove to Mickey D's for a medium decaf coffee with cream. (Two lines broken, a snack and an extra fat.) Once sipping on the coffee I headed home to farm online, the comfort available to me in my self-constructed closet of a world.
But instead I sat down to write, and to try to figure this out. Why am I so mad at him? Because he hadn't reached out to me as he was dying? (Romantic nonsense) Because he was the only person who had ever held me with love and passion? (Real, but histrionic.) That somewhere deep inside I really had believed we would find each other again? (Fantasy, it would never have worked out.)
Much calmer now, I realize I am just moving through my grief. As unexpected as it is, it's there and ignoring it won't do me a bit of good. So accepting that I am mad at him is healthy, and reviewing why is helpful in calming me down. Because it's not based on reality. At all. Yes I wanted 'us' to work out. But I wanted a partner with all of his virtues and none of his issues - after all it was the latter that was partly to blame in driving us apart, and nothing there was going to change. He was who he was, and if he didn't want to explore that with me, well, that was his choice. His path.
In releasing my anger towards him, I find it redirected at myself. Why have I made my world so small that I have no one to meet for drinks and commiserate with me? And as always the answer comes back to Joey, and of the undisputable (in my mind) fact of me not being worthy of a bigger life. That my mission right now is to do the best I can for my grandkids and just exist until this can all be over. I thought I had gotten past that, that I had decided to live a real life and not just exist, but apparently not. And I think that Harry dying just pointed a big old finger at me, the universe pounding the point home that I ...what... that I aren't trying hard enough? That I need to either accept a small life or do something about it? Just thinking about it is so overwhelming I feel myself pulling back, a tortoise retreating into his shell, to the small, dark, safe inside.
A small life can be a good life, so why am I still struggling with the notion that it should be more than what I have, bigger and more meaningful? Because I believe that we are here to experience life, and I'm not doing a very good job of it. Damn, and here come the tears again. All of the books I loved as a girl growing up have a strong heroine who fights and wins whatever the situation. So yes, I have high expectations of myself and the disappointment can be overwhelming that I have fallen so short.
And now I am fed up with my whining, and a little bit of a different kind of mad starts to set in. Because I know I have a good life, that I am worthy and loved. But I feel like Helen Hunt in As Good As It Gets, so frustrated because it's been so long since she's had feelings of wanting to be held and loved. And I know that if I keep living a small life, I will never meet someone new. Never connect with another partner. And at this age I could have another 15 year relationship - since that seems to be the limit of my patience with partners.
'Working' on myself is exhausting. I don't want to do it, I just want life to miraculously open up and provide what I need for exactly who I am.
This journal entry began with the intention of looking at the stages of grief to modify them and examine where I am in the process so I can be prepared to move on. Instead it turned into a rant, a pity party, an abysmal glance into how I see myself and how distorted it is. But it's my truth right now, and I don't see a way out except to just accept it. And I don't see that happening. So a rock and a hard place.
I guess I'm just waiting to see if I end up as a a diamond or dust as my world shifts around me.
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