Nobody told me that the second year of widowhood would be harder than the first year.
If they did, I don’t remember it.
If they did, I’m sure I probably thought “Bullshit. Nothing can be worse than this!”
Boy was I wrong.
Grief is an asshole. It doesn’t care that you’re having a string of pretty good days. It doesn’t care that you are starting to think that “hey I’m actually happy” again. It jumps out and grabs you when you least expect it. You can’t ever feel safe because the bogey man is just waiting for you to drop your guard so he can knock the living shit out of you.
Prince Charming’s birthday is on Wednesday.
I should be buying him a Steeler’s jersey or a Jimmy Johnson shirt or some fancy new ham radio gadget that he’s had his eye on for months. I should be planning a lovely dinner with him and his children at one of his favorite restaurants.
Instead I placed an order for roses to place on his headstone. I’m planning on taking a beer with me to the cemetery when I take the flowers to him. I’m taking the day off of work because I can’t bear the thought of trying to be “okay” when every fiber of my being will be anything but “okay” that day. I’m planning on going to dinner with his mom because Prince Charming’s birthday also happens to be the day of his parent’s wedding anniversary. He was born on their first wedding anniversary . . . Prince Charming would be 53 this year and his parents would have been married 54 years this year.
This sucks on a colossal scale.