Embracing heartbreak with humor
I’ve been told I just have to move on. You have to move on.
Those are the voices. Find a way to be happy. He’d want you to be happy. He’d want you to live your life.
You don’t even know what you’re asking of me. You think you’re asking me to climb a hill. I know you’re asking me to climb a 40,000 foot mountain on my hands and knees without taking a breath.
Day 127 – Ask me
Maybe someday I’ll lose weight and make a million dollars a day and save all the dogs and help my family and run a marathon (this somehow seems the least likely to me) and watch my own show on TV and save the planet/reverse climate change and travel everywhere on my list.
The least likely one of those is actually lose weight. I don’t know why. I probably don’t care about it all that much. When I’m tired/bored/anxious/sad/annoyed/tired again/any other feeling, food seems like the only thing that makes me feel better at all.
Day 123 – Weighed Down
Life is exhausting. I know I’m the first person to notice that, so you’re welcome for mentioning it.
On a happier note, I stood up for myself at work and it went well. I didn’t trip or pee myself or run into a wall. I didn’t stumble (too badly) over my words. I didn’t break down hysterically crying. I DID mention how uncomfortable I was, but that’s pretty much as good/bad as it got. My boss is awesome.
Anyway, that went well and then I got chicken for dinner and fell asleep on the couch so in case you were wondering, I’m a depressed, divorced, 50 year old man who’s about to have his reawakening in a mediocre rom-com.
I hope life is a movie.
Day 122 – Rom com hopes
If I don’t call my mom, I won’t have to know if anything else bad has happened, right? But then I leave her there, with her pain and her pile of work and worst of all, my father.
I never know what I’m supposed to do. Live my life? Live her life? Move back and help her? Move on and help myself? Call? Don’t call?
I so often choose not to call. I know. I’m the worst.
Does it get easier?
Day 121 – So tired
Bad news bears. My mom’s dog died. It’s hard to explain to people when your dog is ACTUALLY your best friend how hard this is.
It’s hard. Loss is hard.
I can’t seem to eat, drink, sleep, exercise, laugh, run, avoid, work, or beg the sadness away. How do people get out?
Day 120 – Sad Day
Do so-called “normal” people have as many ups and downs as I do? What is normal, though? Like, pumpkin spice lattes and cute fall photos and long blonde hair and a terrier puppy and a small waist and a job in PR? Or, like, a big friend group and co-ed sports teams and tickets to concerts out in the desert and a boyfriend of 8 years that’s perfect and church on Sundays? Or, better yet, a comfortable job and financial security and good friends and a spouse and a house and a workout class every Wed/Fri and hosting themed parties and in bed by 10?
Instead, I have emotional roller coaster rides and confusion and judgment from my family and flaky friends and constant sadness and lots of cookies and evenings on the couch watching reruns and a job I tolerate that pays me next to nothing and a dream I haven’t accomplished yet and disappointing my parents and anxiety.
Am I doing it wrong?
Day 117 – Normal
Avoid, avoid, avoid.
Still haven’t made my deadline. Of course. Still haven’t written a word. Of course. Still haven’t faced any of my feelings. Of course. Is it obvious that I hate myself? Is it spilling off this page? If I could punish myself with words, I would. If I could punch myself into feeling better, I would.
There’s no way, it seems, to erase the pain. The well is deep. The feelings in there are fucking awful.
In the words of The Grinch, “I loathe myself.”
Day 116 – Dark Day.
All I do is work and eat and work and sit and try to stay up and sleep and work. Do other people have hobbies? Energy?
I have a writing deadline… So far, all I’ve written is my name at the top of the page. You do not write your name at the top of scripts.
Day 113 – Work Work Work Work Work Work (thanks, Rihanna)
It happened. Half his stuff. In the house. The move-in was actually pretty seamless. But then we got in a fight about… something. I can’t really remember. It seemed important.
He didn’t want me to put dishes away. I wanted to put dishes away. That was the fight.
For the record, I put the dishes away.
Day 112 – First day fight
Tomorrow he moves half his stuff in. Only half. Baby steps. Sort of. Then one big step. ONE HUGE STEP.
I managed to get rid of two pairs of shoes for him. Oh, and some t-shirts. That should be enough space, right?!?
Day 111 – I’m not freaking out; you’re freaking out.
A Year to Grieve 