There's the first phase, where you know he's gone with your intellect, but not with your emotions. I ran round and cleared out all the stuff that had bugged me for years, or the later stuff that reminded me of illness. I felt a freak, not really able to feel sad.
Then came the buying phase, when I bought enough stuff to set up my own market stall. Each purchase gave me a moment of relief, of pleasure - but when I realised I'd bought exactly the same pullover twice, I thought it was time to slow down.
And of course there was the contact phase. I sought contact al the time - and found it. Poor soul, you have to take care of a poor soul. And the alcohol, where pouring a few gin and somethings down my throat in pleasant company at least numbed whatever else was there. Doesn't help you sleep any better, though, and the intimate details you reveal to whoever is handy can't be recalled.
The throwing out of your partner's belongings phase cools a bit, and you just lump personal things, reminders, together and don't look at them. Haven't even sent my application for a widow's pension off yet. Can't bear the word. Not that I'd get much, if anything. Letters come, final demands. Who cares? Not I. Time to try and build a life, not look at the past.
Then comes dependancy. I latched myself on to two people closer to me, and fell into panic if I had no contact. I still do. Relationships became confused, I needed people to hug me (still do). But what's a hug to some people? Not always platonic. But no sex please, I'm British, and recently widowed. Who can you trust, who do you mistrust? A bit of paranoia creeps in. Can I trust myself?
But you think you're normal. People always do. No wonder they say don't make any important decisions in the months following a bereavement. Hyperactive, brain overexcited, jumping to conclusions .... Twice I've been to the doctor to say I don't need anti-depressants. Twice he refused to stop them.
Joineed a web dating site for the contact. A bit of fun at least, chatting and mailing. But that's all, please. Just want to believe there could be a future when I'm not alone. Don't want to give up now. I want to live a bit after all this horror, live a bit before I die.It helps fill some quiet hours when I can't sleep and can't work. People keep saying how great I am to be picking up the pieces of my life and getting on with it. How strong. They have absolutely no idea that it is pure desperation, that the other way leads absolutely nowhere at all.
Well, now I know why the doctor wouldn't stop the tablets. Waves of uncontrollable crying. Panicking (ME!) at the idea of being alone - where I always enjoyed it before. Don't know who I am any more. But I have to try to find out. And I will.
But it's going to take time.
