Weekends

img_20190621_204236748I felt like I was getting “there”.  “There” is the place where I started to accept my new norm with a tiny bit less sadness, grief or anger. While they existed, I didn’t feel as paralyzed by it all.  This week, I even saw some small victories. I felt I was on my climb toward the peak of my new norm. I knew I had a way to go, but I was climbing. And then the weekend hit. It hit like the weekend before, and I’m sure the weekend ahead. It hit hard and knocked me off my footing, causing me to plummet back down to where I began eight weeks ago – into the bowels of despair, the bowels of Widowhood.

Among the many hard parts to Widowhood – sadness, grief, longing, finances, paperwork, insecurities, and new definition – the hardest of them all is the hardcore loneliness. The feeling of isolation, of being forsaken and abandoned. It’s not from the lack of friends or companionship, rather from the lack of Peter and his companionship. My longing for my husband is so strong, it sends me to a dark place of utter despair and rips me into pieces. And nothing reminds me more of Peter and my need for him than the weekend.

The weekend was always a time for Peter and me to reconnect, to connect, to be as one. Without Peter in my life, my weekends are filled with idol times spent without him that brings about an emptiness so strong, I shake from it.  I feel the entire loss of him when I eat dinners alone, during my solo car rides, even while vegging in front of the television. I feel his absence during my sleep and the first thing in the morning. My weekend time is taken up with the silence of solitude and the high pitched sounds of vacantness hurt my soul. It travels through me, torturing my being and forcing the devastating from missing Peter to gush out of me in a flood of tears.

Peter and I were independent. Besides marrying in our early thirties, we had our introverted tendencies. Our alone time was needed and special to both of us. So, yeah, we had our separate times. But we knew there would be reconnecting times on most weekends. Those were the times we would sit without words as we watched a movie, or have all sorts of discussions eating dinner together. We felt each other presences as we ran errands together in the car,  and we were one during our intimate moments. These were the times, the moments, where we lived and breathed as a couple. They were secure times, warm times and times of attachment. But those times are gone now, vanishing like the fading sun right before a storm.  I feel the ache of every gut-punching reality. I am alone now and, on the weekends, the loneliness, my loneliness, is so very prevalent.

I have a lot of kind people in my life, people I love and love me. Sure, the number of people compared to eight weeks ago is starting to get smaller. Texts are fewer. Messages are less.  My cell phone does not ring as often.  And I get it. Their shock has worn off, their grief has lessened, their lives move on.  And it is as it should be. I hold no anger. Although, to be honest, and I’m always honest, I do hold disappointment for a few, the few I thought understood more. I try not to dwell on those few though. I try to embrace the number of people who have figured out while my shock may have diminished, my life is still in flux as my grief is still here, especially on certain days, like weekends.  I suppose those are the people who know me best.

Despite all the kind people I’ve been gifted it in my life, my hurt prevents me from reaching out, even having any type of desire to be around anyone. Besides, as good-intentioned and loving as they are, they are not, nor will ever be, a replacement for my Mister, my Peter, the source of my once-was. And I ache. And I am damaged. And I am alone.

I hate weekends. I never thought I’d say that, but I do. I once liked them. I once had Peter in them. I mean, I know, along with all the other eventuallys, I will be okay with them again. Maybe even hold a spark of excitement come Thursday. But for now, my weekends are glimpses into the horrible nightmares of the Holidays, Birthdays and Anniversaries I face in the future. The times where the isolation grabs hold of my heart and squeezes until I can’t breathe. I’m glad tomorrow is Monday.