Saturday, 10 November 2018

The problem with asking for help

I think I just realized the main problem with asking for help when I'm really down. I think that when there's someone there to help me, in my living room or on the phone, I'm more concerned about not disappointing them, or making them feel helpless or as if they didn't help, than I am with, well, being genuine. I don't want to have troubled them for nothing. And then, if my mood doesn't improve, I just end up feeling just as bad as before, only with the added weight of discomfort and guilt. 

*

Perhaps it's the normal way things go with grief. I miss him. I think it's time I sat a whole evening and wrote down everything I feel without thinking; prod the festering wound so it can heal. But it hurts, and I'm scared. And I don't know how to ask for help or what help could be given. 


But as a start, since the tears came randomly again, I put our wedding song on repeat again and wailed loudly and freely like a child, for some half an hour. It only helped a little, but - 

Fuckit. I think I need help. 

Thursday, 8 November 2018

It's not food you're hungry for

Brain: I'm hungry.
Me: We just ate. Our stomach is full, see? Thinking of more food in there makes me nauseous. 
Brain: Maybe I'm horny.
Me: [contemplating this with relevant literature]: Nope, that's not it.
Brain: But I'm hungry!
Me: You're not hungry, you're hungry for something which isn't food and you're translating it to the concept of an empty stomach. Catch up with evolution, you.
Brain: Whhhhhhhaaaaaa!
Me: Okay, okay. You want a smoke [has some]
Brain: That's better. Still hungry though.
Me: Not food... not sex... not smoke, what could it be?
[epiphany]
Me: You idiot. You're cold. [puts something on]
Brain: <satisfied purring>
Me: Thank gods. You whiner.
Brain: <Drowsily> Still... hungry.
Me: I will fucking shoot you. With a rake. <goes through the list of possibilities again> Brain, is it possible you're tired, you ill-communicating mental turd?
Brain: <yaaaaaaaaawn>
Me: I hate you.

Tuesday, 6 November 2018

Dear brain,

Having had this talk at least once a week these past two months, and you having failed to grasp the point, l would like to remind you that every time we're enjoying life - about every other week, yes? You tell me 'gosh, Bell, if we'd died in June, or last month, or last week, we wouldn't  be having this awesome day, and wouldn't have discovered how to sculpt that element in Blender, and wouldn't  have gotten to enjoy how soft this duvet is'. So brain, darling, as the person sharing this body with you, I feel it might be couterproductive to, when we're overwhlmed by heartache, keep offering those ideas which would mean no more of the above, plus causing Dad and co to feel even worse than we do right now.

I knew some lines were crossed when you came up with those fruitless notions without me being knackered or some acceptable trigger happening, and I can accept that perhaps quitting smoking at such delicate times is not my best idea. I'll tell you what, brain-darling; I'll get back to smoking, and you will stop bringing that idea up, okay? I'll take the coughing over that feeling any time.

But do me a favour, sweetheart; lets try to get this done with sooner rather than later, okay? Becuase if we don't, that body we both live in and abhor will be so ruined by overweight and smoking that we could make fate quite amused by finding the will to live only to die a week later from a heart attack making love to lung cancer in our main hall, deal?

Yours sincerely,

Bell
Oh, heavens, this hurts so much. It hurts so much. Where is my love? I don't understand. It's like some weird bad dream I can't wake up from. I don't know how to stop feeling.

Sunday, 4 November 2018

Kitten sez no smoke-smoke

It's driving me nuts but it takes 30-40 days for the body to stop flooding the brain with dopamine when you think of a smoke (aka no psychological craving), and the actual, physical dependency should pass within a week, I think.

Plus, there was an immediate reward: The very day I quit smoking, I stopped having those ten-minute long coughing fits every night and morning - those fits that were the reason I chose to quit. This is very gratifying and quite great, if it wasn't for the temptation to just say 'well, if it's so immediate, perhaps I can simply smoke less, not quit entirely, and it will be fine...'

And a large part of the problem, a part I should really find a way to clear from the table because it's irrelevant, is the self pity - because I'm feeling down and there's no food, no money and no smoking so I don't know what else I can use to soothe the pain (not solve it, just... comfort myself a little). 

In the meantime I made the first of the Warcraft herbs, which is something I had in mind for 4-5 years now. It wasn't very interesting, but if I keep making them I'll have new stuff to challenge me and sometimes that's enough to keep me occupied, and occupied is all I need to be until this wave of sadness, and rehab from smoking, pass. 

So here, Peacebloom. Bring me some peace.


Saturday, 3 November 2018

The medicine really handled the mood plummets very well so far, and most of it, nowadays, is just sadness and not the overwhelming kind. Now it's overwhelming, and I don't know what kind of help to ask (thanks though, Ray darling) or how to ask it. And I quit smoking, and there's no money to order in compensative food, and there's nothing more than the basic (though tasty and nutritious) food in the house, and other than food or smoke I don't know any salves to put on the wound, and the would - missing Xhusband - seems to have opened harshly two days ago and got worse by today.

...Can't come up with something to ease this pain a little. I'll go to bed. Perhaps it will pass. 

Friday, 2 November 2018

Sometimes even people who love you dearly (and whom you dearly love back) make mistakes, and one happened yesterday morning, and it wasn't a big thing, and there were sincere apologies, but it left me brittle and then the day just kept going wrong, as these things go. I went to bed a bit after midnight, which is about five hours earlier than usual, and today is a bit better.

But I sat there yesterday afternoon and carefully peeled the flower stickers from the bedroom wall. I never liked them, I'm not even sure why they were there, and it's not as if Xhuband cared about them either, but peeling them felt as if I was peeling off ten years of a happy marriage, or rather the clinging to, and it made me cry and the crying hasn't stopped since. 

One can't skip sadness; you have to go through it, preferably while letting your emotions freely flow with the tears, to emerge feeling better on the other side. I crave a distraction but, as often happens in such times, anything I try ends up being uninteresting; but I don't want to just go to bed and hide, that doesn't help. 

Perhaps focusing on stuff that needs to be done - really needs to, not 'can do later' might work? I need to cook, because there's only raw ingredients which can't be eaten, in the kitchen; I need to wash that frying pan because it started smelling funny (and I dread what I might find when I pick up that lid). I probably need to sort out the laundry, because laundry bags everywhere is a memory linking me back to Xhusband time and that's counterproductive for the well being. 

And I want to call someone and cuddle in their metaphorical lap and cry and find some comfort; but they're all so young, and I don't feel okay seeking shelter in someone 15 years younger than me. But I wish there was someone to tell me 'it's okay, Bell. Cry all you want, I'll take care of you until you're done. You were happy last week and you'll be happy again next week, and it's okay to be sad and grieving, you lost something that was very precious to you'. 

...It feels like he died. I had so little say on the matter, zero impact; and there's nobody to spoil anymore, nobody with his childlike wonder at things like games or awesome food or chocolate or being kissed, nobody to surprise with treats or love notes or to make laugh until they're breathless, or to do the same to me. I miss spoiling him so. Very. Much. And I'm too grown up and too sensible and too experienced to try and call him; no person in history ever felt better after calling their ex for comfort. So I don't. And I can't tell him any of this. And it feels like he died.