Sick From All of This

alone bed bedroom blur
Photo by Pixabay on

I’m having a hard time writing this entry today. I’m not feeling well. My throat is sore and my body aches. They say grief does that to you, knocks your body around and leave you feeling like crap. I get it. Why wouldn’t it?  I’m not eating properly. I am certain my recent diet of ice cream bars and bacon, foods I don’t normally eat consistently if at all – I am one of those weirdos who does not really like bacon – are not on any food pyramid. Yet those are the foods I’ve been consuming most of the time, that is when I have an appetite, which isn’t often.

Then there’s the sleep or lack thereof. I’ve never been a great sleeper. I am one of those who rip off sheets and gets up every hour.  It’s nothing new. I’ve been doing both since I can remember sleeping. I think part of it is because I have vivid dreams. I remember all of them.  You know, I’ve never wanted to pursue acting, maybe because I act so often during my dreams at night and I acting in my wake life would be repetitive. I don’t talk in my sleep, at least no one has ever told me I do. But I do toss, turn, toss, turn, claw at bed sheets and wake up. I’m a horrible sleeper. And now, in my grief, I find sleep is even more difficult as it evades me.

During the day, I have a hard time just chillaxing. My mind, which is always stuck on autoplay all the time, fast forwards, skipping over the relaxing times. There are ten million things I need to get done, or so my anxiety yells at me. I think that happens more when a spouse or partner dies suddenly. All of the projects left undone, all the discussions for the future left unspoken, all the plans left unprepared, and all the pleas for help in building tomorrow left unanswered invade your thoughts like ants on a potato chip. I have tried to quiet my thoughts, and I do succeed once in a great while. But then I look at a folder of bills sitting on a desk or a get an email from an insurance company, or something comes in the mail and my mind’s gears start moving again, almost like they’re stripped.

And of course, there’s the crying. I’ve always been a crier, especially an emotional crier. I have a high tolerance for pain. Being klutzy at an early age toughened me up so I don’t really cry from physical pain. Emotional pain? Um, yeah.  During our marriage, Peter grew so accustomed to my tears, he kind of ignored him.  I don’t mean that in a cold way, rather like I had a tic.  I understood. Emotional tears were as much a part of me as my sarcasm or blowing my nose during a cold. Yet, since Peter died, I have cried more I have ever cried in my life. There has not been one single day, I have gone without crying. Not just tears slipping down my cheeks, but the sobbing, ugly, cry.  The type of crying where your gut tightens, your heart hurts and your throat convulses. The type where your anguish is so deep, any hope of one molecule of joy, one rice grain size of happiness, is gone and disappears with each dry heave of tears. And that is exhausting. And that does not do the body good.

Well, I hope this all made sense. It’s probably one of my more scattered posts, and probably one of my most boring. But today, I feel crappy and I am scattered. I am boring. They don’t have to tell me grief caused this. They don’t have to tell me my sore throat and body aches are from grieving. It’s one of those obvious, ‘duh’, things. It’s yet another thing Death stole from me when he robbed Peter from my life. And really, there’s no true recovery from all that is gone, just a figuring out on how to adjust.