i think some of us write because we are, by nature, a narrative species. we have always been storytellers. i also think that we seldom feel truly listened to. blogging is a way to put our words out there for all time. it is a technological carving in stone. we want to be heard, by someone, at some time; hopefully during our own lifetime. it is not lost on me that schizophrenics suffer from a loss of their story.
we write to break the silence that surrounds us, or at least i do. for all i have written of in my own blog, it is truly the tip of the iceberg. so much i wish i could say but do not out of fear. i, sadly, am one who blogs to, yes, see if anyone is out there, and if anyone is listening to me.
as odd as this sounds, i miss winter. even though it lives inside me, it is the barren winter of blowing ice and snow, of the distant, uncaring rejection of the sun. i want the winter i knew with him to come back. i want to drive up to the warm glow of my Dragon waiting for me at home. i want to walk into a place that smells of his stew and cinnamon and brewing hot tea. i want to sit on the sofa against his big body and feel his warmth radiating into my back.
we write to break the silence that surrounds us, or at least i do. for all i have written of in my own blog, it is truly the tip of the iceberg. so much i wish i could say but do not out of fear. i, sadly, am one who blogs to, yes, see if anyone is out there, and if anyone is listening to me.
i have always been honest; told i have been brutally so. but here is the only place where i can be. i have not had benefit of friends to open up to, nor grief counselors who stay with me for longer than a handful of weeks. i am bereft of anyone to tell my story to. i have things i need to say, my heart aches to speak of, my mind screams to let go of, but i cannot here. not this publicly. and so, i use Beach Bunny, the Ambassador, my photos, and metaphors to try and give voice to what i cannot say/write.
i am tired. i feel used up. i feel like i am living with winter in my soul, and i love winter. or used to. i think in ways i still do though winter here is not like my winters up north with him. winter here is anemic. winter there, winter in Rockport, the nor'easters were magnificent.
winters there were spent walking outside for photos, to feel the cold on our skin and see what no tourist sticks around to witness. fierce winds. blinding sleet and ice that stings. waves whipped up throwing themselves like demons on the rocks around the town. even sunny days, with no storms on the horizon, held a power that kept me in awe.
on sunny days, the cold could be so brutal that it could kill if you did not keep track of the time. the sun seems so far away, smaller than in summer time, as distant and uncaring as a mother's rejection. and yet, i was not alone. he was beside me, behind me, holding my hand, handing me a flask of hot chocolate. always there with me.
on sunny days, the cold could be so brutal that it could kill if you did not keep track of the time. the sun seems so far away, smaller than in summer time, as distant and uncaring as a mother's rejection. and yet, i was not alone. he was beside me, behind me, holding my hand, handing me a flask of hot chocolate. always there with me. and going home, the smells of stew simmering on the wood stove. the dogs needing to have ice balls slowly combed from their fuzzy bodies. the warmth of sitting on the sofa between his legs and leaning back against his chest, both of us reading. both of us warm. entwined physically. our souls essentially melting into one another until you could not tell where one left off and the other began.
such was winter with him.
and then he died, and i was left alone.
only my children but they have their lives. i have tried to connect to widows here, but i cannot. they do not want or need me. and i do not want or need them. after the pneumonia of Jan. this year, and what was said to me, i became angry at the world, angry with people, quicker to judge motives. i am ice cold inside. winter has come and i am alone in it.
only my children but they have their lives. i have tried to connect to widows here, but i cannot. they do not want or need me. and i do not want or need them. after the pneumonia of Jan. this year, and what was said to me, i became angry at the world, angry with people, quicker to judge motives. i am ice cold inside. winter has come and i am alone in it.there are things i wish i could tell someone. there are things i wish i could sit across from a person and say out loud; say it out loud and witness their reaction, feel some kind of compassion come across to me.
i feel hollowed out. life has taken me and carved me up and then stuck a knife in and hollowed out as much as it can and still leave me breathing. then it said, "there, you bitch, make something of that. make something of yourself now."
so i sew. so i stuff bunnies and bears and wolves, and say words over them, heart ceremonies. and i write. i send a stuffed bunny to do what i cannot do. but do anyone of you who host her know why she is there? really know why? because i need her to be. i live through the photos. i crave the attention. and it is all because i am lonely.
just before Camp Widow this year, a widow wrote to me and asked if she would see me there. i wrote her back and said, "no. i have no money for something like that. and the job i have pays minimum wage therefore i can never take off. i will never have enough money for a vacation."
there is this ineffable sadness that dwells inside me. i feel it all the time. even when i am smiling and laughing at work, it feels like a lie. i do not want to be there. don't get me wrong, i love my job. it is giving me a food in my stomach and gas and paying for my electric and other stuff, but i feel like a marionette. this is where life has dumped me. i am not where i want to be, should be, or with whom.
i am alone in winter. i am knocking on the door, {or am i already inside} the winter of my life. i am older, 53, and i am sad and angry at people. i hurt so much of the time. there are things that are going on that i cannot write about but know that i am hurting over them and it is nothing i can fix. it is something that i will have to let wash over me and fight to not let it drown me.
as odd as this sounds, i miss winter. even though it lives inside me, it is the barren winter of blowing ice and snow, of the distant, uncaring rejection of the sun. i want the winter i knew with him to come back. i want to drive up to the warm glow of my Dragon waiting for me at home. i want to walk into a place that smells of his stew and cinnamon and brewing hot tea. i want to sit on the sofa against his big body and feel his warmth radiating into my back.i want what i can never have again. him. and i am bereft.
so i will write it and then sit back and wonder if anyone truly reads, if anyone understands what i mean.
i am without solace.
winter is in my soul and i am cold and tired.
