The new year is around the corner. There is so much to let go of as the new year approaches. COVID at the top of the list and all it took from the world. For me, when the clock strikes midnight and the new year arrives, it’ll mark a year and a half since Peter died. A year and a half, and I’m still here. A year and a half, and I have let go too.
I don’t feel the same since Peter died. I moved past so much of what held me back. I even stopped writing my blog because, honestly, it was becoming repetitious. I can only write I am in pain or feel alone in so many ways. Plus, the emotions I had initially, the strong, intense ones, are starting to diminish, and I find myself living more and surviving less. Maybe that was my most significant sign of growing away from the blog. I’m not sure.
In the new year, I think my writing will take me in other directions. I may write a brand new blog about living as a widow, and all that means, including navigation without a partner, suddenly single as I near 60, wondering who I am to become, and most importantly, accepting who I become. I already see glimpses into me I didn’t have when I had a partner to lean on. Life’s all on me. I don’t have anyone to consider when making decisions. That’s all on me too. My new house and its decor will be a reflection of me, and me alone. My life focus has changed from a married person to a single one. Also, new romance ideas are already swirling in my mind based on older characters.
As the new year approaches, there is a strange emergence of me from when Peter was alive. There are growths and changes foreign to me. I acknowledge that mistakes will continue, and I don’t try to fight the inevitability of them. I don’t beat myself up near as much with worry, and instead shrug with an ‘it’ll be okay”, because everything pales in comparison to Peter’s death. To my surprise, I have fewer battles with patience, really. For me, I lose my patience when I lose control. Peter’s death has taught me there are so many things in life you cannot control. I am working on accepting what happened and what my life is now because of it. I know. I know. The final stage of grief is acceptance. I also know I will be hopping backward to other stages too, but I don’t think as frequently.
Peter’s death was horrible. The suddenness of his death was horrific. I miss him every day. I never asked for it. I never wanted it. I never dreamed it. Every day, I still shed tears from my longing for him. I cry from missing the everydayness of him. And there are still too many times where I am sobbing from the truth of never again. But, reality always stops me with the question, “now whacha gonna do?”. In the end, the fact remains Peter died and is never coming back. How he died is no longer important. Wishing him back won’t make it so. And, my sadness can come any time it wants, but it can’t stay. See, I am still here. Peter will always be gone. As painful as that admission, nothing will change any of that. Nothing.
So, on this day, a few days away from 2021, this will be my last Reluctant Journey blog. I truly appreciate all of you for following me, encouraging me, supporting me, and affirming me and my emotions. I needed this journal, this blog, to survive. Thank you for having a part in my survival. If that seems too dramatic, it’s not. It’s the truth. As I said in the beginning, swimmers swim, runners run, and writers write. I am a writer.
When the clock strikes midnight in a few days, and we usher in a new year, as I acknowledge the year and a half mark, I will say a toast to Peter, to all of you, and for the me yet to come. I wish you peace in your new year and in your nows.