Why do we exist? What is the point? We begin our lives (if we are fortunate) in a loving, protective household, and yet does this do us a disservice in preparing us for the real world? Bev is dead. My husband’s best friend. The best “man” at our wedding. Who I met in a Detroit airport bathroom and we squealed so loudly, my soon-to-be-husband threatened to come in to get us. It was such a joyous moment.
It used to always be joyous.
I spoke with her oldest daughter this morning. She died, shortly after being put in hospice. I never got to say goodbye. I never was able to tell her how much I loved her and what she meant to me. Her youngest daughter is trying to get into a rehab facility in FL, but, as usual, is having problems with finding a bed. That is always the problem. People finally admit they want help, and yet there is never a room at the inn. So they go back to the elixir that makes it all go away.
I battle with the same demons when life throws me the death curve ball. I have a life now where I have to monitor everything I do, so I do not return to the path that I used to follow to ignore my grief. I have to make sure I do not spend my life in and out of rehab or pysch wards, but there are some days when I just want to say “fuck all of this” and be kept locked away, where the real world – with all its pain and suffering – cannot touch me. I have fallen into a deeper depression than I was in prior to getting this news. I want to cut myself. I want to feel physical pain in order to try and feel something, anything, because all I feel is numbness.
Everyone goes about their lives as if none of this affects them. And it doesn’t – not until it happens to them. But they will never understand me, my suffering, just as I can never completely understand theirs. I feel I am getting looks today at work (of course I am also in a highly paranoid state right now) that seem to say “why did you have to take the day off? Why would you need that to grieve?” I want to scream at them – “you don’t know me, you do not know my pain, you do not understand what these circumstances do to my mind”. But they could never understand. There is one person in this world now who understands the craziness of a bipolar brain – my best friend who is 2,000 miles away and is going through the same seasonal/life depression that I am in. She gets it. She understands the ups and the downs and how exhausting this life is.
I am tired. I am exhausted by the daily battle. I wish, some days, that they would give me electroshock therapy so I could forget all of this, and become a robot. No emotions, no feelings, nothing to hurt me. Instead I wake up every morning and take the numerous medications that have been prescribed for me and don’t seem to work anymore. I wander through my apartment, solo, because my partner is also 2,000 miles away and we have become a long-distance couple, so he can be with his son. And his son desperately needs him – more than I do. Or at least that is what we have agreed on. I did not think this would be so hard. I did not think being away from those who grounded me (for the most part) would not be close by.
I now live in the paradise where I’ve wanted to be for years, but the only joy I find is in watching the sky when the dawn breaks over the palms, or standing out in my yard at night to stare up at the moon, the stars.
And what I imagine, what I hope for, is that in her death she has found my late husband. That they have been reunited wherever it may be, and that when I look out at the night sky now, I will see a glorious, shining star that is the combination of the two of them. That together they will somehow help me find peace in the losses I have faced and the losses that are yet to come. But most importantly, I want to believe that neither are alone in the vast unknown. And that perhaps one day – maybe soon, maybe when I am an old woman – I will be able to find them again and dance in a joyous circle of their love and light.