journal entry

Ford is 9 months old tomorrow. 9 months ago I was next to Pete in a hospital room. Last year at this time, I was 6 months pregnant and reading a ton of books. And today, I am a 33-year-old, single, widowed, mother.

My apartment is the cleanest it’s ever been. There is still so much to be done, but it looks so good in here. It continues to be totally weird that every decision is mine alone. Where to store things, which rug to buy, which mugs to keep… it’s completely my choice. I’ve never had that before. And I sure as shit have never trusted myself enough to even attempt to make decisions of any kind. 

Honoring it, though, is a really fun practice. It feels good to stack the dishes how I like them, organize the clothes the way I want them, buy the food I want the household to eat. We had a very equal marriage where I was given ample opportunity to make the choices, but I always always deflected to Pete. I found great comfort and safety in that. But I also see now that I was still heavily enveloped in codependency I thought I’d beaten. I stopped tending to my own garden and let myself wilt and crumble, all while I was watering someone else’s garden every chance I could get. I was so good at supporting Pete that I also hid behind him often. So, now, deciding which shelf to put the plates on or throwing the groceries in the fridge how I want them feels somehow monumental and important. 

I feel disassociated from myself. I’m afraid I am pushing my grief away, and I know that will only make it worse. Besides my two recent and brief bouts of tears, it feels like I’ve been holding back a tsunami. And it seems totally subconscious so I’m not sure yet how to snap myself out of it. I sit in my feelings, I write, I reflect. But still I can feel my heart shackled in its steel cage, pounding against the bars, and suffocating from the restraint. 

I tell myself that I just need to get through the next step, and then I can fall apart. But the next thing to be done is always as important as the thing before it, and my kids need me 24/7, so even after accomplishing something as huge as getting the house sold, it doesn’t feel like there’s any time to breathe. I can’t appreciate the progress I’m making because I’m still right in the middle of the marathon. There’s no time to pause for appreciation, I’ve gotta just keep moving forward. 

I can feel I need to be cracked open again. I need to dissolve and truly feel and have some time alone. I’ll try and make some time for that. Until then it’s like waiting for a sneeze that won’t come. Or emotional blue balls. I can tell there are so many complicated emotions inside of me right now, and if I don’t give them the full attention they deserve, I’m afraid of bursting.