Yield! In The Name Of Love

I was looking back at some of the old photos of my wife and I back when we were dating. I am so lucky that she was somehow able to fall in love with the chubby, pasty, goofy-looking kid I used to be. Now I'm a chubby, pasty, goofy-looking adult and I'm...distinguished. That's a good word for it. There was a time when my wife and her best friend both agreed (until I found out about it), that my head looked like 'Yield' sign. Ahh, memories.

I feel that my wife saved me from a lot of fates. There was that whole worry that my Yield-sign looks might not exactly be a chick magnet. I used to live in constant fear that I would end up as a Forever Alone meme. I imagined that my life would consist of living and dying in a cubicle, turning into Gollum for want of human contact. My wife made me realize I didn't have to suffer the dating scene, I didn't have to work a job in a cubicle, I didn't have to worry about never finding a 'precious,' and if my head is a Yield sign: I was her Yield sign.

And I didn't have to worry about getting bored with my wife. Her mind was as exciting or more than any other part of her, which turned out to be what I wanted more than anything. She kept me from a fate worse than death: stagnation. What if I had found a wife in my cubicle-hell nightmare, and she turned out to be boring? Oh my god, I would kill myself. Well, I probably wouldn't kill myself, but the boredom would probably do the job for me. I'd have to take up some weird hobby like arson or weasel-stomping or graffiti'ing mustaches on billboards. I wonder why I picked those hobbies. They just came to me. And they range from misdemeanor to felony. At least for now, while I'm grieving, I'm rarely bored. Often, it's much worse than 'bored' but that's OK. Crippling sadness and rage at nothing are fine, but boredom kills. Which is true, I read it on the Internet.

Stupidly Clever 'Cope' Pun

Incense. Candles. Reading. Writing. Visiting her grave. Seeing friends. Going for drives. Bereavement support groups. Meditating. Smoking (only sometimes). Drinking (only sometimes). Petting my cats. Watching TV. Singing. Sleeping in til 3 PM. Staying up til 8 AM. Dinner with my family. Twitter. Support group websites. Wikipedia'ing random stuff. Classical music. Celtic music. Eating Cheez-Its. Drinking Mt. Dew. Looking at photographs. Swearing. Staring at the sky. Blogging. Cracking dirty jokes. Making stupidly clever puns. Carrying a gratitude stone in my pocket. Dice-based RPGs. Internet porn. Sharing my story with random people. Trying new things. Remembering good times (when I'm able). Pizza Hut. Taco Bell. Rain. Buying shiny things online. Howling. Feeling in control of something. Not feeling fears I used to. Dreaming. Sleep. Wearing her hoodies. Wearing her socks. Giving no fucks. Sharing too much information. Love from my wife. Being.

These things help me cope with grief.

YET I STILL CRY EVERY FUCKING DAY

Don't get me wrong, I understand that crying is a coping mechanism itself. Still pisses me off. A song starts or a thought crosses my mind, and it's like a single piece of straw drifting down in the breeze and gently breaking the camel's back in a split-second. Happens a lot while driving. I'm just thinking "could I freakin' not ALWAYS be crying?"

When I'm alone of course. Crying goes in my back pocket like a photo when I'm in public. Ew. Can I just say, briefly, screw my society and it's views on men crying? Most of the rest of my society is cool, though. That Freedom Of Speech stuff is pretty handy. I believe that I have the fortitude to not be ashamed for crying in public. But this is a new development. And up until recently, my body was being programmed to never cry in public. So I can't. Which is just as well. I get enough frickin' crying done in private anyway. It's because some idiots don't know how to deal with a man crying, so they lash out, making my pain about their inability to feel any feelings besides anger. That's the theory, anyway. I'm no psychologist. I do feel psycho, sometimes, though, so that'll have to do. But admitting that sometimes I feel a little psycho helps me cope with sometimes feeling a little psycho! Or is it that admitting I feel psycho exacerbates my feeling like a psycho? Oh, dear. Maybe I should just stick with crying.

If you'd like to, comment with what helps you cope with grief! (Comments are anonymous unless you want to leave a name)

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of Cheese (Who Am I To Dis A Brie?)

So now I've started stealing my wife's dreams. Hey, she coulda stuck around to live them herself, but nooooooooo, the Grim Reaper had to be all like 'nu-uh.' Is it considered graverobbing to take a dead person's dreams or can we say she bequeathed them to me in spirit because I was her spouse? I'm still doing it, even if it's graverobbing.

Now I wanna be a writer when I grow up, which was my wife's longtime dream. Yeah, I said "when I grow up." I finished reading a book a week ago (which strikingly enough, is about the death of a young lover). Afterward, I emailed the author (which happens to be my wife's favorite) and I actually got a reply back! I was so excited, I had to make fun of my own little celebratory dance of joy. My wife would've given any amount of anything to have communication with this author and I did it! So,naturally, I also feel kinda scummy.

I wanted my wife to live out her dreams, not will them to me. But I'm not turning back. Cuz I guess I still want her dreams fulfilled, even if I have to dream them myself. Wow, that kinda sounds cheesy even to me. Oh well. Don't care. I'll leave whether or not it's cheesy to those who read my first novel: "Love In The Time Of Cheddar."

Shame? I give no 'fucks' ;)

Soooo...yeah, I really miss the uhh...physical aspects of my marriage, if you get my nudge-nudge wink-wink drifty-drift. Is it getting too personal to say me and my wife did the sex? Surprise! I'm a man, and I have no problem admitting I even just miss cuddling. For chrissakes, we would watch Netflix everynight on a loveseat: I freakin' miss having her thigh resting alongside mine during "Oddities" or "South Park."

Not to brag or anything (totally bragging here), but after eleven years together, my wife still got butterflies in her stomach when I held her hand. Which, to me, is an incentive to hold her hand even after eleven years holding that same hand. Now I can only hold hands with myself. Which is awkward for both of us. And I am getting so tired of taking myself to bed every night.

And the worst part is that I have zero desire to pursue anything physical with anyone else. I can't have what I really want and I don't want to just settle for whatever's available. Like when Harold and Kumar drove past all the McDonaldses and Taco Bells and Hooterses because only White Castle could slake the craving. Except, for me, 'Wife' has closed its last franchise. I'm hungry and I can't get a bite to hit the spot. If you get the winky-face metaphor.

P.S.

If you're reading this, hi mom!

I don't need your 'tude

They say I should be grateful for stuff. My wife died at 27 and they expect me to somehow fathom being capable of feeling gratitude. I go to several bereavement groups that meet locally, and they are beating me up about this gratitude shit. I'm feeling the opposite of grateful. Not 'ungrateful,' something much less grateful than that.

And yet.

I know it could be worse! It could always fucking be worse, couldn't it? Isn't that amazing? Life...can always get worse! Death remains a fairly level line, but life can somehow always get worse!

What pisses me off the most is that things can actually get better, too. There's always a chance. I guess it's hard for me to think about there being a chance for life to get better after hearing the doctors tell me my wife had a chance to pull through and look how that turned out.

But still.

Can I be grateful for, if nothing else, the things that haven't gotten worse YET? Can I allow myself to feel that bit o' grateful they all want me to feel? I suppose. I hadn't considered that. At my bereavement group yesterday, the facilitator passed around a dish full of smooth, colored stones she said we could use as a reminder to have gratitude when you can. I picked one that reminded me of my wife, of course, a mottled purple and black pebble the size of the tip of my thumb.

Today, I got a dirty look from a thuggish-looking stranger for absolutely no reason in a parking lot. It kinda made me laugh. And I had my gratitude stone. And about 15 minutes later, I realized that if that had happened back before my wife died, that grimace would've left me shaken. But the worst thing I could've ever imagined happened October 15th, 2015. I'm really not scared of that petty crap anymore.

Thank you for loving me, baby. I'm -- wait for it -- grateful.

Hell if I know

I don't know what the afterlife is like (obviously) (if there is an afterlife)(gratuitous parentheses). But I want there to be an afterlife just so my wife can send me signs. I've asked her on numerous occasions to learn how to make the lights flicker. That's one I've seen in movies and stuff, where the ghosts make the lights flicker. I imagine it's something she can learn, right?

She just needs to get the hang of things, that's all. I'm sure the afterlife orientation is boring but necessary. You know, show her around heaven, give her the keys to her wings, tell her what hours the pool is open, that sort of thing. But once she's acclimated, I'd love for her to find out from someone who's been there awhile how to make lights in the real world flicker for me. She's got an awesome aunt who met her at the gate, maybe she can give my wife some pointers? If there's a technique, I'm sure she can pick it up easily.

I just miss the communication, you know? I used to be able to talk with my wife long into the night when reasonable people are all asleep. Even after 11 years together, we never ran out of stuff to say. If we can talk through the light fixtures, that'd be enough, you know? Although I'd feel like I was ordering drive-through, talking into a lamp. I'd do it, though, if it meant I could get messages to her in the afterlife. My Verizon plan doesn't give me paranormal texting, so I'd like a sign. I'd even pay for roaming.

How do you like me now? (Seriously!)

Gimme a 'G!' Gimme an 'R!' Gimme an 'E-E-F!' What's that spell? Well, cheerleaders aren't generally known for their brains. My wife hated cheerleaders in high school. That didn't stop her from being my biggest cheerleader. You see, I crave validation. That's why I made my grief journal public and shoved it's links at everyone. It would've been waaaay easier to just pick up a composition book at CVS and box of ballpoints. But I had to make sure somebody was listening or else what's the point? My head is full of my tired opinions and I'm bored.

Growing up, I always seemed to be rewarded for the stuff I half-assed, and when I put my soul into something, it met with nary a scoff. Twelve and move years of teachers can't be wrong, right? I liked the feedback from my wife better than the feedback from professionals. So what if she was biased? I'm biased about my own work, too. Among all the things my wife was to me (best friend, lover, the person who introduced me to delicious crab legs), she was always my biggest fan.

And like a cheerleader, she spurred me on to greater acts of...whatever it is I do. Out there on the football field of life, it's simple. Get that ball to the endzone and do a little dance around it. And she was there to remind me to B! Aggressive! B-E Aggressive! B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E! Now without her incessant hope for my own ability, I don't even remember if sliding into third base will get me an icing penalty or a double-dribble. Which is why this blog thing is so awesome (for me, and hopefully for you). It helps me validate myself. I have to learn how to be my own cheerleader while I'm also the star player. I don't think I look that good in a skirt and pom-poms, to be honest. These skin-tight football pants are androgynous enough.

Beyond my expertise

Nothing funny at the moment, it's six months ago today that my wife died.

Join the club, we've got (straight)jackets

I knew my heart was broken. Now my brain's going all to pieces. Buy me a one-way ticket to the crazy corral, cuz my grey matter is going goulash. Two times now I've gone from crying to laughing or vice versa. Literally one moment laughing, one moment crying, without a pause to change moods in between. Once was weird, twice is a pattern.

You know, in the Kill Bill movies, at the very end, after she's finally, you know, done the title, she's on her bathroom floor cry-laughing. I get that a professional killer probably has a few cylinders misfiring. I don't think I'm that batshit yet, but I'm well on my way! BTW, if I do drop the dubious grip I currently have on sanity, I'm totally gonna break into assassin-ing. Or maybe I'll start raining down clown-themed crime on Gotham City.

One thing I don't want is to medicate myself through grief. If I'm going crazy, let it happen! Who cares? Plus, I don't know what they would prescribe me, but synthetic opioids have a direct relation to a spike in heroin overdoses in middle-class suburban communities. Not that I'm paranoid. But I wouldn't mind losing my mind. I know how to beg for change while simultaneously protecting my thoughts from the government psy-beams. I've never been institutionalized, but if I did, it'd probably help me get on a regular schedule, right?

I don't want to make light of people suffering from real, diagnosed mental illnesses, to be sure. But I do feel a bit crazy laugh-crying, you know? And I have zero problem making fun of myself. Plus, if I catch myself going crazy, maybe just noticing it helps me stay sane? Who knows. But hey, at least if they throw me into the wacko ward I'll get lots of hugs. The jacket they'll give me will make me hug myself constantly!

The Cat In The Lap

OK, I tried to write some stuff to post and it just wasn't funny. I do wanna post something, though, because I said so. So here I come, charging ahead into the unknown! The past week or so has been rough. One of the cats barfed and I had to clean it up. Also my wife's still dead.

My wife and I had this agreement about the cats. I would always clean the litter box and she would always do the food and water for them. When they barfed up a hairball, we took turns cleaning. We could usually tell which one had barfed by the contents. Her cat was a moron and would eat too fast and throw up un-chewed food. My cat was a idiot and would eat hair off the floor until he got hairballs. Ahh...memories.

Now I have to do the food and water, as well as all the hairballs/barf myself. It could be worse, I suppose. It could be kids I have to take care of by myself. And kids would understand me if I muttered "stupid fucking kids" when I'm cleaning up their messes. I'm so glad my cats can't understand all the terrible things I say to them. They're also an absolute blessing, bringing me affection when I'm in the pits of despair.

My wife's cat is especially affectionate sometimes. She let that cat climb all over her, even while she was trying to sleep. He has horrible manners. But he will also climb up my chest purring like a diesel engine to nuzzle my face. He'll even disregard the unpleasant wetness of my tears in exchange for some ear-scritches. My wife made him so loving. It kinda feels like her cat is a vessel for her love. Although not when he's barfing: that's him just being a stupid, fucking cat. And I love him. I highly recommend pets for grieving. If you don't have any, visit your local petting zoo or aquarium 'touch tank.' I assume you'll get the same feeling.

I 'should' be better to my mom

Grief is like a dimmer switch. On one hand, the intensity of all the bad stuff is blinding now: I want to claw at the light like a vampire and hiss. The good news is...at least you don't have to listen to them snoring anymore, am I right? Huh? What's that? You'd take them back, snoring and all if you could? Oh, right. Good catch. Moving on. Anyway, there's more good news!

Grief turns the intensity on the rest of the world waaaay down. For example, my wife died in October at the age of 27. After that, my grandma died in December at the age of 93. I also had an aunt die a few days after that. I don't know her age. But those deaths barely made a blip on my radar. When my aunt died, it was all I could do to stop myself from saying "So?"

I live in a big, clumsy, heavy turtle shell of wife-grief. I'm kind of impervious to new grief, you know? I'm sorry I can't come to the grief right now, I'm on the other line. Your position in line is - 2 - please hold. And then I'd ironically have the hold music be Billy Joel's "Only The Good Die Young" (and so you can jam out to Catholic schoolgirls, you pervert).

I find myself not caring as much as I used to. As my generation says, "I have no fucks to give." It's not so much that I don't give a fuck. It's more like I can't give a fuck. You see? All my fucks-to-give are currently in use. My sister needed her gall bladder removed since my wife died. Did she live? Yes. Is she fine? Yes. So for me: don't care. My mom's doctor called her regarding worrisome numbers about her liver and she needed more testing. Sorry mom, but I can't spare a care until the test comes back 'positive.' Grief is whiting out my vision. It's hard to focus on other stuff.

Some son I am, huh? Well, I wasn't supposed to be a damn widower until my mom had already been dead for decades of natural old age! OK, I know this sounds bad. I really do love my mom (she's well by the way, tests came back fine). To quote the timeless words of Gomez Addams: "I didn't hate my mother, it was an accident!" That was a family that new about death. I bet the Addams family would be supportive about my grief. They might even have a phone that can text emojis beyond the grave or help me reanimate her hand. You know. To help around the house. What was I talking about? Oh, right. Grief. Dimmer switches. Yeah.

*fade to black*

Made with natural & artificial funners

Every. Single. Time.

When I try to have fun, try to get out there and do something positive for myself to distract or engage myself, grief comes around poking me from behind. I think he's "happy to see me" if you catch my drift.  I can't have fun and it just be fun without grief getting all gropey immediately afterward.

It usually hits me about three minutes and twelve seconds after I leave from having fun. I will literally stop mid-thought and burst into tears while driving. I've only crashed seven times this month, so I'm doing better than I was. It's easy when I'm hanging out with people, because social situations seem to throw me into shock enough to keep from turning into a puddle. And I really do have fun, or something like it.

Fun changed when my wife died. It's chemical makeup has been mutated. Fun has a griefy aftertaste now. I'm not saying I don't want to have fun. If it weren't for the small bits of fun I have, (and writing down my frustrations [and breaking the fourth wall]) I would probably tip the dealer, cash in my chips and say goodnight. I just miss the pure, normal taste of fun back when my wife was here to have it with me.

It's like all my normal Mountain Dew has been irrevocably replaced with diet. I've still gotta drink this Mountain Dew. I can't just stop drinking Mountain Dew altogether. That's not living. But if all I have is diet, I've gotta learn to accept the bastardization of flavor until it becomes the new normal.

Yeacch. This is what fun tastes like now. A lot like it used to, but then you get the griefyness stuck to your tongue and water doesn't wash it away. But, to be honest, I'm just astonished that I can say I have fun at all. So cheers! *raises martini glass full of diet Mountain Dew* To the fun that is possible, no matter how wonky it tastes! May each swig be more tolerable than the last!

The Courage Paradox

Consider the following: inside, I feel broken, toxic, afflicted and yucky. I don't feel strong or brave. But, if tell people that I feel broken and toxic, they call me strong and brave. What's up with that? Am I broken or brave? Healthy or helter-skelter?

It's close to the point where I think I could literally say "I'm feeling the opposite of brave right now" and people would say "that's so brave of you!" ...Uhh...is this one of Gollum's riddles?

Guess what? I feel like, you know, there's some kind of weird, supernatural disease or ethereal poison that I carry, that didn't exist in me six months ago, which could one day harm myself or others. That's how I feel in my insidey-parts.  Am I brave now?

Can I be both?

Apparently so, based on the titles people have bestowed unto this simple cynic. What do you think? Does sharing creepy feelings indicate valor? Does acknowledging weakness convey a strength of a different sort? Either way, I don't know how to use it. Being called strong is warm for a few moments, but grief has drilled into me permanently, drilled into me a...gloryhole. (Best metaphor ever)

I don't know what I should feel when people call me courageous. There are options. I can squash down their well-intentioned sentiment with the crushing reality of piteous grief. I can lie and say, "Yeah, look at how strong I am, who needs a soul mate, beer me." I can waffle, and try to point out the truth while also trying to accept the compliment. I can also just ignore it. There's probably other stuff, too.

Maybe I really am doing the courage by whinging about my feels. Maybe I just can't accept strength as a quality I may possess in the wake of not being able to do a damn thing to keep my wife out from under a rock at a plot. Screw it both ways, I just don't get where I'm keeping this strength y'all keep talking about, cuz I could use some strength...!

Wait. Maybe the strength isn't something I possess until that moment. Maybe it's something I gain by virtue of it being reflected back at me based on how you feel in the sharing. Maybe, because I can share with you, and you feel it takes courage, that's where the courage comes from. Boy, children's books have really boiled down the semantics. Courage used to be so simple, right? Harry stands up to Malfoy, and Snape, and Voldemoohoohoo: clear-cut courage. I'm just trying to fathom how to take a compliment. Uggh. 

This is getting existential. I'm gonna go meditate on the metaphysical implications of courage. Beam me your thoughts through your third eye -- it's cool, my chakras get unlimited messaging.

You just can't even

Don't ever compare your bitter breakup or destructive divorce to my grief at the death of my wife. I know they are both a loss, an emptiness, a feeling of loneliness and regret. Maybe there is something there akin to grief. I guess you could say a love died in both scenarios -- figuratively.

But my dead love left a corpse. That's not a metaphor, allegory, image, symbol, analog or figure of speech. Your dead love has a person that is still breathing, still walking around, still paying bills and texting. You can still say things like "maybe one day we'll get back together." For me, the equivalent would be "maybe one day I'll take her remains to a witch doctor and see if she can come back as a zombie."

If you and your lover have parted ways, I'm sure there are profound feelings of loss and/or betrayal like exist with grief. I can't even imagine what that's like. But you can't imagine what it's like for me to've literally, not figuratively, watched my love die. I needed a funeral director, not a lawyer. She didn't take half her stuff when she left, I still have everything. If I want to email her, there's no warm body there that will read the subject heading and maybe delete the message. I'll never accidentally bump into my wife at the store or see her carrying on on someone else's facebook page. I'll never see her again, not even for a second. I'll never hear her voice again except in recordings. I'll never come to terms with why she left or 'go our separate ways.'

If you and your lover split up, no matter how traumatizing or disturbing the process is, there is still a chance, however remote, that you two could get back together somehow. Even if the chance is only .000000000001%, that chance is still greater than zero, which is what I'm locked in at. And that ridiculously small percentage makes all the difference in the world. If there was a .000000000001% chance for my wife to still be alive, you wouldn't be reading this right now.

Results may vary

I don't say "forever" unless I mean it. Like when I say "I've been standing in the checkout line at Wal-Mart FOREVER!" Actually, at Wal-Mart, I usually "for-fucking-ever." Unless there's children standing in front of me or someone wearing a 'Property of Jesus Established 0 A.D.' t-shirt. Then I say "for-goddamn-muthafuckin-ever."

But I told my wife that I wouldn't "say forever" to her unless I meant it. When we first started dating, I was 15 and my mom told me the marriage wouldn't last three weeks. She was only wrong by about 19,266.7%. Approximately.

I proposed to my wife at 19. It was a formality, really. We didn't have a date in mind, we just knew that, yeah, we're sold with this relationship, wrap it up, we're gonna take it to go. I totally screwed up the proposal, though. You see, we had talked about the proposal, what she wanted and didn't want, and I knew enough to put some of my own creativity into it to make it special. In the Disneyworld complex in Florida (or as I like to call it, 'The Waltican' or 'Waltican City'), when you drive in, there's a big archway that reads "Walt Disney World: Where Dreams Come True." I proposed to her beneath that arch at twilight (not the stupid movie, the beautiful time of day). But! I remembered clearly in previous discussions she had told me that she didn't want me to propose down on one knee. It was just what she wanted.

So I pulled over to the side of the road under the arch and leaned from the driver's seat to the passenger's seat and opened the ring box and popped the question. She had kinda guessed that this was the proposal already and wasn't surprised, but was still ecstatic. We continued driving, we had dinner all lined up at The Rainforest Cafe in Downtown Disney. As she took a picture of the ring to upload to Facebook, she happily reminded me that actually, she had stated that she specifically wanted me to take a knee for the proposing, and was kinda bummed. Whoopsie! Boy, did that make me stammer! I promise I'll do better next time! Oh, wait...

That was at 19. And she was still so happy that I wasn't even in the doghouse for my botching the question. But the truth is that I told her "forever" long before that. Like a fool in love, I told her "forever" when I was 16. If I ever heard a 16-year old say "forever" I'd call him or her a bald-faced liar, or, at best, an ignoramus. But the truth is that I told her I wouldn't say forever unless I meant it. At 16, I probably was a liar and an ignoramus. But I meant it. And I kept my promise. In fact, "forever" wasn't nearly as long as they made it seem in the brochure. I think I'm gonna go read the terms and conditions, as a matter of fact. She was way too young for the term to "forever" to even apply, right? There's gotta be somebody I can sue.

It's something

It's weird how I can see myself fading in and out of shock. Like earlier today was pretty rough, strong emotions, it was rainy out. I went for a drive, mostly because of the rain. I like the aesthetic of the rain and the gamble of the slicker roads. But now, I'm at home trying to organize my thoughts and I can't feel anything. Back in shock. I'm typing live from shock! Hi, world! I think I can relate to you right now.

Shock kinda forces you into the present. It's like watching TV. Yeah, there's shit going on in the world. But right now, TV is happening. So shush, I'm tryin' to hear the TV. Shock says "be quiet, grief, I'm trying to be."

Don't get me wrong, I love to be wracked with the agony of having watched my wife die, but hear me out about shock. Sometimes, every odd Thursday or Friday, whether or not I've been crying all day, I can feel, with the shock, a tiny glimmer of optimism.

I didn't have one of those today.

But they do happen.