Happy Holidays! (you know which holiday)

You could say that last year, when it was two months after my wife died, around christmas time, I was a big, fat ball of grinch. I spent xmas eve and day in a delicious fog. I may have grunted at people. I think I slept until 4 or 5 PM and I wish it'd been longer. There were no gifts or ornaments or cheery fucking carols. My christmas was neither white nor blue, no silver bells nor green pine trees, just a greyish-brown blur of awfulness.

Did I mention that christmas is one of my favorite holidays? I'm not Christian. I was raised Jewish. But all that shameless commercialism around this time makes me just cynical enough to guiltlessly enjoy a secular xmas. Christmas memories with my wife are some of the best I have, like the year we went after halloween and bought all the clearance spiders and fake blood from that for our halloween-on-christmas tree - complete with a witch hat topper. So this year, I've decided that I'm not gonna let grief ruin everything, dammit. It's ruined enough.

It's not even December yet, and I've already hung myself...a string of lights. It just goes up the wall outlet and randomly around the ceiling. But I'm determined not to grinch it up this year. That being said, I still need all the christmas music to back the fuck off. Those songs are cute a handful of times for a few days before the 25th. But if I have to listen to them for a month straight, they make me wanna stab orphan puppies. That's not being grinchy, just a fact of nature.

Tale as cliched as time

I was told, time and time again, that the second year isn't any better than the first in grief, which I took to heart. So now that I'm in this second year, why am I so surprised at just how not-better it really is? I took the warning to heart - didn't that safeguard me against the reality of the it? Feels like I'm walking a thousand miles, and at marker 500, I'm shocked there's still 500 more to go. That can't be right.

But I still got grief. I still get angry and depressed and feel awkward about my deal in social situations and want to sleep all day. And of course, I still cry in the shower, while driving and when a TV show or movie shows anything even remotely emotional. Sure, I've made progress. 500 miles walked so far. I can laugh at funny things and smile when I'm happy. Shit, I'm able to say I can be happy: that's a hell of a miracle.

I guess I just want to know when things can actually start getting better. Nobody has anything conclusive for that one, though. They say grief takes it's own pace and every grief is different, and other thoroughly aggravating truths. At the end of the thousand miles, is that place called 'better?' Or will there be two thousand more before 'better' gets to where I am? The only thing anyone can tell me is to keep walking. 'Just keep swimming,' as Dory would say. Or 'keep moving forward,' from Meet The Robinsons. Disney seems to have a bead on this shit. But that magical, mystical land of 'better:' I can't just flash forward there like Simba going from adolescent to adult over the span of one rendition of "Hakuna Matata." I guaran-goddamn-tee you, they cut out tons of footage of Simba shower-crying.

The One Ring

It's been one year, one month, one week, and almost one day since my wife died, and I'm thinking about finally taking off my wedding band. It's not because it's poetic, but more because the damn thing keeps falling off. It doesn't fit as snugly as it used to. I've been hitting the gym, and you can really see it in my fingers, I guess. I just don't want to lose the thing, or drop and break it (it's tungsten-carbide, it actually can break).

I should clarify, by "finally taking off my wedding band" I mean "finally moving my wedding band from my hand to a necklace." It will be added alongside my wife's wedding rings, at the risk of having one very crowded and jingly necklace. But on my left hand, the fourth finger (what's that finger called again?) will be bare for the first time in more than half a decade. It's something I've known would have to happen at some point, though the reason sure ain't what I'd expected.

Honestly, I'm kinda glad to have a practical reason to take it off. It's better than trying to decide when my love for my wife has sufficiently waned or some shit like that. I'm already anticipating more than a few freakouts. But it had to happen sooner or later, I always knew. Might as well be on the day that's one year, one month, one week, and one day after losing her. Makes for a good story that way. My advice for grief: do what makes for the best story. Like Tolkien.

#WWTD

Writer's cell block

Around now, grief really feels like 'doing time.' I got one year down on my sentence. And a month. How many more? I can do it, I know it sucks, but I made it through the first year. Now I just need to get through however many I have left. Got used to the food, my cell, the shitty routine, yard time. Warden seems to like me, I guess that's good. Feeling this prison metaphor?

This will be the second holiday season away from my loved one in this solitary confinement. I'll live to have many more, and that's if I'm lucky and don't get shanked. My fear is becoming institutionalized, of forgetting what it's like on the outside. But I can't forget, just being trapped in this box is such a glaring reminder. And when I get to have my freedom back, I'll still be stuck with this on my record, just like any felon. But until then, I'm just doing time, the hardest time I've ever known. I'll do it, and loathe every minute of it.

Maybe, like prison, getting out is dependent on 'good behavior.' Which, to grief, 'good behavior' kind of feels like 'fake it 'til you make it.' If I do things that make me happy, eventually I will be happier. That's the theory anyway. But even after this much time, happiness is still a slippery subject. And when you're surrounded on five sides by cement and one side by iron bars, it's hard for happiness to stick - even if the cement are bars are just metaphorical. But every day I'll carve another tally mark into my wall, and every day I'll be a tiny bit closer to serving my time, and finding out what freedom has become while I was locked up.

Humpty-Trumpty sat on a wall

There's countless things I wish my wife could've lived to see: Lady Dynamite on Netflix, all my recent writing efforts, age 28. Donald Trump being elected president is not one of those things. In fact, she'd be horrified, like the rest of the rational world. If she were alive to see the outcome of November 8th's election, she would've been outraged, scared, protesting.

Actually, that's not true, we both lived through the Bush years, and we would've both lived through the Trump years. She'd be disappointed, maybe get a bit more cynical, but on November 9th, she would've gotten up and gone to work like every day. She would not have been rioting or throwing Molotov cocktails into Banana Republic stores because it sounds like 'republican.'

Together, her and I could've stoically faced the election of a bigoted, xenophobic, misogynistic, egomaniacal, lying, hot-headed, inflammatory carrotman - and we would've be just fine. Because we had each other. We would joke about how the comedians have their work cut out for them in the coming four years, how Canada has lovely weather this time of year. As long as the candidate didn't threaten to outlaw love, we would've been fine with the president-elect being an actual carrot. Am I happy with the outcome? Not in the slightest. But I have more important things to stress over, like how my wife isn't here to stress over Trump with me. The next four years are going to be pretty much unchanged to my frame of reference, whether the next president is Trump or Clinton or even that wingnut Shia Labeouf. (And besides, Trump can't really change much, the lizard men are in control.)

The LOL-ing Stones

Sometime earlier this week, a blog post was laid out for me, and I found it tonight. My wife's headstone finally got put in, and much to my lack of surprise, her family totally fucked it up. The reason why this is a blog subject is because I found it hilarious. I'm actually glad it took so long to come in, because if it'd come in even a few months ago, I might be kind of upset. But really, it's something she and I would've laughed about.

As I talked about before, at the funeral, one of her family members came up to me and asked me directly what I wanted on the stone. I said "She Will Be Loved" which is the title of our song and, in my opinion, a nice message for someone who's passed on. Ignoring that entirely, they put her legal last name in parentheses (she took my name when we married) and left her maiden name as if that were her married name. Bit misleading, if you ask me. Someone might think my name was her family name and vice-versa. They also included "Daughter, granddaughter, sister and wife" in that order, a clear attempt to minimize what I meant to her. If they all think they were more important to her than I was, I don't mind letting them think that, because I'm the one with the memories, not just the imaginative wishes, regarding her opinions. Could be worse, though. The only obnoxiously Christian imagery was an angel: at least they spared her the disgrace of an unwanted cross.

There's a chance that the reason the stone is so different from what I requested was because I remember hearing that the family member who would be taking charge of the stone was developing some kind of dementia. But from everything my wife told me about her family, it wouldn't shock me in the least if another family member butted in and took control for their own easement. And it was really similarly worded to the newspaper obituary, which I know wasn't composed by that particular family member.

I think the only reason I'm actually a little annoyed is because I'm the one who has to look at the thing -- because I actually visit her. My wife wouldn't be surprised either, to find out that her family used her headstone for their own self-centered reasons. But honestly, it has all the makings of a running joke between us, if, you know, she wasn't dead. All I can say is she died knowing who really did and didn't care about who she was as a person. Based on that gravestone, she was right.

As I've mentioned before, I'm working on writing projects inspired by and honoring my wife's memory. I think I know which memorial she would've liked better. But what do I know about my wife's opinions? I only have countless memories of her expressing them.

Sweet purrender

So I'm sat down to write for my blog and stressing because I can't think of what to write. Well, and I'm also stressing about whether I should work on my novel. Oh, and I'm also stressing because I have another writing project that is coming along. Well, two other writing projects. If you're keeping track, these stresses are all things I've put on myself. Oh, and there's grief! Which always helps with stress.

So with all these projects to work on, I ended up doing nothing but stare at the computer screen, schvitzing. Then, one of my cats, the one that used to belong to my wife, hopped into my lap. Annoyed the hell out of me, but I figured what the hell? Not like he interrupted me working. I started petting him. Then my cat came over and looked up with those big ol' jealous eyes of his. My wife's cat went up on the back of my chair (with some gentle shoving) and my cat took the newly-available lap. And for a while, I tested my multitasking skills, trying to pet two cats (who don't like each other) simultaneously (one of which was behind me).

With all my writey efforts and a regular job as well, my life has started to feel pretty complicated. Cats are simple. It's hard to imagine something so incredibly simple as petting a cat when your mind is running in several different circles. That's why they like to invade our space: to remind us that when we aren't sure what we should be doing, but have a million things to do, maybe the best thing to do is none of them: just pet a cat (if you don't like/don't have cats, then the cat is a metaphor).

Present times are still the best times (so far)

I freaking love the internet. In addition to it letting me whine about grief to anyone in the world, it houses resources that generations before me would've happily traded their polio legs for (mm...too soon?). As a side project for the novel I'm working on, I am also pursuing self-publishing a collection of short stories online. And 50 years ago, that sentence would've sounded completely cray-cray.

But with that there internet, I found a site that introduces authors to freelance writing professionals, and after filling out a few online forms and clicking a few buttons, I can request quotes from up to 5 cover art designers or content editors - just like that! Boy I'm glad it stopped being The Not-Information Age. So I did. I've already heard back from 3 of the graphic designers, and one of them, who works at a major publishing house, said my title is great! Me! But for the price of a professional book cover design, I could also go to Best Buy and get around 55 inches of flat screen TV. Totally worth it! I've been buzzing all day!

What actually motivated me to come and share all this in blog form is the realization, just a few moments ago, that I haven't actually accomplished shit yet. I still need to finish editing the short stories! The graphic designers are freelancers, they'll take money from anyone they want. In fact, I should get to work on that stuff now, what am I doing wasting time blogging, when I-

For Whom The Taco Bell Tolls

I was in the drive-thru lane at Taco Bell (which could describe more of my evenings than I'm proud to admit) and I realized that now, a year has passed, and I still possess the ability to cry about B.S. minutiae! Thank god I still have that!

You see, back when my wife was alive, we wound up in the drive-thru lane at Taco Bell more of our evenings than we'd be proud to admit. Now, I have a well-known fondness for their nacho cheese sauce (which I'm sure is legally a "cheese product" that has never known the touch of a cow, but to me it's basically yellow liquid crack). Occasionally, in those days of yore, my wife would order something that came with a little cup of nacho cheese sauce, and if it was more than she wanted to use, she would, of course, give me the remainder. Which, as you all know of course, is true love.

So that all hit me and I burst into tears. Fortunately, I'd already ordered, and I had time before my turn at the little window to reign it in. So yeah, turns out I can still have those moments after a year has passed. Darn. And I'd really been hoping. I will say that this time, among the random griefbursts over minutiae, I felt a bit foolish, more than I used to. Is that progress? I'm calling that progress.

Life is long, hard and gets messy too fast

I've said it before, and I'll probably say it again (though my opinion is subject to change with time): I'm not afraid of death. Even after losing my wife, I can honestly say that I face that hereafter or everafter or whateverafter without any squeemishness. I attribute this to the grandfather I never knew, who died twenty-ish years before I was born: as soon as I learned what a grandparent was, I knew what death was. There's no great enigma to dread. It's just dead.

But I'm still pissed off as all hell about losing my wife. Her dying isn't the problem, the problem is that I'm still alive. I would've happily died when she did. Death is easy! Death means you don't have to go to work, don't have to pay taxes or shovel snow. Death means you don't have to deal with some moron in a BMW cutting you off and then driving in front of you 5 miles under the fucking speed limit. Living's what's hard.

If nothing else, I'm glad that my wife doesn't have to endure life's bullshittery anymore. I'm still stuck out here, and I can't kill myself, because it's not the right season anymore (late Spring, according to Maria Bamford). I know that my time with my wife was the happiest of her life because she told me so. But there was a lot of time when she wasn't with me, and from those troubles, she's now free. I just wish I didn't have to still be here trying to survive life. She's dead, I'm not, so my job's waaaaay harder.

Regularly scheduled grief

I've said it before, grief is losing it's pizzazz. Now that I have a job again, and a schedule, there seems to be less to write about on here. Certainly less of the side-splitting variety, if any of my humor can be considered that. Turns out routines are dead boring. This is not news to me, but it also turns out that even grief can't spice up a Monday-through-Friday work week.

It doesn't help that the weeks are flying by, either. That's another thing about routines, they can make a week blink past and all of a sudden it's Monday again and even grief is like "Hey wait-! Ah, fuck it." Grief's still around, but it's just another part of my routine to slog through.

I hate the idea of routine at it's core, because they are, as previously illustrated, dead boring. My two worst fears are watching the love of my life die, and being boring. Probably a good time to mention that life wasn't ever boring around her. But I've already lived through the one fear. Is living through the other so bad? Ye-he-he-hes! But as long as I keep writing, I can convince myself that I'm not totally boring. Gotta be a little boring for a while, though. Just enough boring to be useful against the grief, and pay back my damn student loans.

Life is mean(ing)

I have to admit, in my grief, I'm a bit smug. I've talked to many griefy peeps in the past year who have expressed sadness over feeling they have no purpose without their loved one. I don't really know what to say. I can't really relate, because me? I have a purpose. You're looking at it right now. I am determined to honor my wife and simultaneously carve out a new meaning for my life through writing. How am I doing so far? Can you feel the meaning-y goodness?

If you feel that your life has no purpose, I would say that this is an opportunity to scrap whatever you're currently doing with your life, and do anything new. You've already lost everything that mattered: why not finally pursue designer basket-weaving or a degree in mime science like you've always talked about doing "someday?" You can always tell people you're doing it "in their honor" and nobody can bitch about that.

But following through on a new life purpose is hard, even if you know exactly what you want to do. I'm still back living with my parents to pursue my thing, and if the person you're grieving is a parent, well, you know. I've talked to people who feel no reason to live whatsoever, and that's a dark place to be. If you can think of anything, no matter how humbling, that would give your life reason to go on, I'm sure your loved one would support you. So if you always told your loved one how you'd like to learn the cello one day, go buy or steal a secondhand cello and start plucking away, or however cellos work. If it makes you want to keep living, it's what you should be doing, in my clearly biased opinion.

Grinding out smiles

Happiness is hard work! I've often said how lazy I am, and trying to be happy is pissing me off. Now I have to schedule happy and then follow through with a plan. Who has time for that? And even so, happy is still tainted with that earwaxy aftertaste of grief.

Used to be, all I had to do to be happy was come home. As effortless and spontaneous as a nice fart, and thoroughly more satisfying. Even if I was doing something else, as long as I had that proximity to my wife, I was simultaneously happy. Hell, even just thinking about her when I was at work could make me happier than the sorry excuse for happy I have to scrape together these days.

However, if you had asked me about happy a year ago when my wife was freshly dead, I wouldn't've even known what language you were speaking. For a while, "happy" was entirely removed from my vocabulary, and the fact that I have regained use of the word means I might as well get over my laziness and accept whatever I can get. Eh. I'll do it tomorrow.

The paper anniversary (sometimes OK to burn)

It's officially been a year. Plus two days, now. And what a shitty year it's been! So now I just have to do it again. And again. And again. But I only have to keep doing it over and over again until I die. The good news is that all the shittiness of the past year will start becoming the routine for how I go through a year! I've been hearing in my grief groups (for almost a year now as well) that the second year is usually worse than the first, because the fog is wearing off now, and reality is still, well, reality.

At least the anniversary day went well. Myself and a few friends who knew her as long or longer than I did met at her grave (which is still headstoneless) and swapped stories. We also burned some of her favorite incenses as well, because as I've said before, burning shit is just awesome, but you have to exercise discretion. Incense: OK to burn. Building you're currently living in: not OK to burn (tempting though it may be). But all in all, the anniversary passed with more laughter than tears, which is a net gain in my eyes.

So now I'm back to grinding through existence, just like I was on the 14th. I'm no stronger or wiser or peacefuler than I was a few days ago. I'm still fairly incredulous that a year has possibly passed since the love of my life stopped being alive. I still yearn to punch walls and I still cry at songs that don't call for it. And it's not getting any easier, as I've been warned. But at least...at least I have an upbeat, optimistic zinger to close this on: I am not dead yet.

Sick of grief

So about grief throwing me a curveball around the one-year mark for my wife dying: I might end up sick that day. I woke up this morning with a scratchy throat, and it hasn't gotten better through ignoring it today. I've got to hand it to grief: I did not see this one coming. Griefbursts, I'm all geared up and prepped for. But a sore throat? Cunning. Absolutely cunning.

Part of wonders if this sore throat really is supernatural in some way. What if I mysteriously catch a cold every mid-October now? Like some cheap M. Night Shyamalan movie, The Sickening. I'll have to make my ritual of visiting her gravesite include tissues and Dayquil.

If I do happen to be sick in some paranormal way related to grief, and my wife sent a poltergeist to give me this poorly-timed bug, I guess it could be worse. If I really am sick, then I have a legit excuse to take care of myself that's hard to argue against. I may be forced to lay low and take it easy for a few days. Drat!

Regretulations

There's a lot of things to regret when someone dies. Like every thing. The regrets get easier to ignore - where regret used to be an unbearable cluster headache, now it's a dull migraine. But oh-by-the-way, new regrets can also pop up at any time! Ain't that special? And they can take the form of accomplishments, too. As in: "I regret my loved one isn't here to see this accomplishment, they would be so proud."

I made a decision when my wife died that I would live on, since she couldn't, and that means I have to, you know, keep living on. I also realized fairly quickly that if I keep living, my wife will never see me become the best version of myself. Because I'm still improving. I have to improve. Otherwise I'll implode. And if I did that, my wife would be piiiiiiiissed.

I'm writing a book in honor of my wife that she will never read a word of. Well, I try to write, when that regret doesn't get in the way. Isn't that fascinating, how progress on a project can be hindered by the grief-regret that the project's progress can trigger? There's a lot of loopiness in grief. Enough to give anyone a headache. Like a mental headache. A headache of the mind. I guess just a head-headache.

Grief-ception

I've already lived through some major events without my wife: her birthday, my birthday, our anniversary, the release of Lady Dynamite on Netflix (seriously, everyone watch this). I've been learning. In five days, when I get to the first anniversary of her death, I can expect to feel a bit shitty on that particular day. I also know, from past experience, that I will likely have a griefburst, not on the anniversary, but the day before. Know what this means? Not only can I anticipate my regular grief, I can anticipating my anticipatory grief!

Maybe now, because I'm expecting it the day before, the griefburst will hit two days early? Grief is sneaky like that. Maybe I'll have two griefbursts, or none until the day after? But I know to expect...something! I'm totally ready for grief to- well, be unpredictable. Which vaguely sounds like I'm back to square one.

But I'll get through whatever it is. It's a miracle I made it this far at all. Another day won't kill me (knock on wood for freak meteor strikes, rampaging llamas, etc). But I'm watching you, grief, studying your patterns, learning the way you think. I'm inside your mind, grief! How does that make you feel? Oh wait, I already know, cuz I'm seeing your thoughts!

The lamest astrological sign

So I may officially be the worst son ever! Grab the popcorn, kids. So my mom has cancer *uncalled-for rimshot*. One of the first few thoughts that the honorable son of the year had was "I fucking hate my life."

MY life.

She's got the cancer, and I hate my life.

And then, to make things even worse, I went and talked about that private thought on the internet! Did things get a little meta just now? Anyway, the doctors say the cancer is curable, with a surgery that cancer is making all too routine these days. And a friend told me that it's a big thing that they're willing to say it's curable. I guess doctors should know better than to throw "curable" around lightly.

But it's just a little much for me. Grief for my wife is still attached to me like a tum-

...maybe I won't make that joke. Suffice it to say, my mind has no shortage of things running around it. I hope that it's as simple as they say it is, and my mom gets the surgery and boom! she becomes a badass cancer survivor. But I think that, if anything, grief has prepared me mentally better than I would be otherwise for this news. It's something. I forget if it was Confucius, or maybe Shakespeare, or possibly Socrates who famously said "fuck cancer."

2016: Year of the Fog

There's two fogs in grief. One is the fog of shock. That's where most of us grieflings were for a good few months or so after the death. Shock is a survival thing, it's our mind shutting out the bad stuff so we can, you know, not die from it. The other for is a fog of loneliness. That fog doesn't protect you, it just drives you up the wall.

When I think I'm doing well in my grief, something small can trigger my loneliness, and even crying doesn't make it go away. I am a pretty extreme case, though, where I went from being a lonely teenager, to an 11-year relationship that went quite codependent, and now I'm back to the loneliness. I've said it before, I suck at keeping myself company.

Shock fog makes you do things like sleep, and watch Netflix, and bullshit small-talk about politics. Loneliness fog makes you do things like draft online dating profiles over and over, and hate your friends when they ignore you for a few minutes, and change your masturbation habits. Loneliness fog can only be cured by time, and positive human interaction. But for grieflings, positive human interaction is...complicated.

Think. Overthink. Repeat.

Things used to be simple. There was a time when my thoughts were only about one thing: surviving grief. Now, also jammed in the mix are how to honor my wife, and how to live without her. Surviving was about the present, total minimalist. But the other two are about the past and future. You could say my thoughts are hard to organize these days.

If you ask me what I'm thinking at any given moment, I'll probably answer you "what?" I spend huge swaths of time dwelling on how to go about dating, TV and music to de-stress, and writing to memorialize my wife: often semi-simultaneously. Also, often replaying the same thoughts over and over for no discernible reason. And this is with me meditating once or twice a day (if I think of it). New thoughts are being generated faster than old ones can be cleared out! Critical mass! System overload! Phrases!

Oh yeah, and with everything on my mind, I have a job and a schedule and a-sponsablilties to remember, too. I don't have to be thinking about them, but I sure can't forget! I should buy a day planner: for my subconscious.

Things used to be simple. There was a time when my thoughts were only about one thing: surviving grief. Now, also jammed in the mix are how to honor my wife, and how to- Wait...I think we passed by this thought already.