Another post about other posts (again)

Pretty sure I've repeated myself on numerous past posts. I know that the blog is free to read, but I do wanna make sure you get your money's worth. Unfortunately, grief is a lot of circular sensation. There's denial, anger, depression, bargaining and acceptance, plus lots more, and unfortunately, they aren't one-and-done (even acceptance).

If I've done multiple posts about feeling lonely, it's only because that shit hasn't changed yet. Grief is like walking in an enclosed 'Hunger Games' forest. I've passed that tree half-a-dozen times now, and I'm gonna pass it more. Sometimes the tree is wearing Groucho glasses or a rainbow clown wig, but everyone can tell it's the same.

One day I'll get out from under this glass bell jar and return to the real world. I believe that to be true. But until then, I may repackage previous thoughts as they re-return. Hopefully, the different disguises are worth the individual reading. Maybe next time I talk about being lonely, I'll dress it up in a sailor gimmick with a Flavor Flav clock. You'd pay the cover charge to see that, right?

Reach out & touch someone (consensually)

I don't want to reach out to people because I don't want them to think I need help, and nobody reaches out to me because they think I don't need help. Maybe help isn't the right word, since nobody can "help" with that whole my-wife-is-dead thing. But I would like...something? Company. But widowers sucks as company, and I would know: one keeps me company 24-7.

Part of me doesn't want to ask for support because I have a Y-chomosome. Part of me is just lazy. All of me is pretty sure nobody wants to listen to a one-sided outpouring of hard-to-relate-to feely-weelies. But I want somebody to talk to-hoo-hoo!

Mostly, I want my wife to talk to, but that's outside of possibility. Hell, I'd even just settle for folks who can take it in stride when I interject her into conversation. It would also be pretty sweet if I felt like taking initiative to reach out. But I will be doing no such thing. I'll be hiding, alone, and whining that nobody is reaching out to me. It's just easier that way.

#CryForHelp

#IDontNeedHelp

#Hashtag

We are all one (the loneliest number)

This is the hard part. Well, one of the fourteen-zillion hard parts of grief. Who the fuck am I now? OK, I'm a widower, a writer, a cynic, a fucked-up individual and a capricorn. There's all kinds of personality tests online, if I'd like to join Scientology or have my character defined by which Disney Princess I'm most like. I'm pretty familiar with what I am. But adding up all the 'whats' still don't really help me identify 'who.' I met my wife as a teenager, and I went from being my parents' kid to her significant other without a missed beat. Now I need to know who this guy is that inhabits the body I call mine: all by myself.

I've never had such an open-ended question before. I googled "who am I?" and there wasn't even a snarky Google easter egg. A couple of movies and a Christian song came up. Any religion would love for me to come and ask them who I am, because they all have a canned answer to that. But being one of God's creations hasn't brought me much fulfillment. I need a bit more specific an answer than that. It's kind of like being told I'm a carbon-based life form: it's closer to answering 'what' than 'who.'

The answer to who I am now can only come from me. There's no Wikipedia entry or eHow article for this. So who am I? Mostly, I'm a guy who is hating having to deal with grief and an identity crisis simultaneously. I'm too lazy for this shit. I'm also someone who doesn't want to be me right now. How can I figure out who I am, if I don't even want to be it? I'll have to square with that one day. And on that day, I'll be me, and know what that really means. But until then, I'll just fake it.

At least 'Murica knows how to celebrate

Oh, that beautiful Fourth of July mass pyromania. Even if you aren't from the U.S., you gotta enjoy fireworks, any controlled explosion, really (my sincere condolences to PTSD victims). My wife and I loved them. This year will be my first without her, driving out with my family to a fireworks display 45 minutes or an hour outside of town, one the folks attend annually. The fact that I still want to go, even despite the saccharine-patriotic country music they blare, is a miracle.

This particular fireworks display, of course, has history with my wife and I. There was the year we got lost driving home. I didn't want to tell her (as I was driving), just how little I knew where we were. This was back before GPS and cell phone navigation. The technology existed, but we were broke. I'm an Eagle Scout with the Orienteering Merit Badge, I rarely lose my way, and inside, I was panicking. I would've even swallowed my man-pride and asked for directions, if it hadn't been out in the middle of the nobody-awake-this-late boonies.

Being utterly lost in rural back roads with my wife at night was kind of like playing slot machines. The blinking lights and rewarding sounds totally make up for any embarrassing losings. I did admit to being lost, and we laughed our way home, hours after my parents and sister. I could completely lose my sense of direction, but as long as I knew where my S.O. was, it was just another fireworks afterparty.