Today is Sunday #22.
My weeks have become that. What Sunday is it now? The rest of the week can come and go, but Sundays, well, they are "special" to be forever ingrained in my life, my brain, how I eat and sleep. Randy died on a Sunday. I count them and can't believe it has only been 22 Sundays. It feels like a liftetime ago that I saw him, kissed him, shoot, got mad at him! I feel like I can't remember what he looks like. I feel like it has been YEARS that I saw him and at the same time feel like it happened yesterday.
People say I am strong. PFFFT! Stong is such an odd term. How am I strong? Because I get up in the morning? Because I can still function some? That isn't strength, that is necessity. I have to get up, take a shower, be there for my sons. This grief thing? This right here? It's bullshit. But I will not let it defeat me, define me, become me. I will go through, ride this wave, but eventually I will reach shore and stand up. I have to. Have to for me, my family, FOR RANDY.
I think widows get caught up in grief. Before you throw the stones, I see it. All. The. Time. Grieve and grieve hard, but it isn't who you are. It just isn't. I know for me, if I had died I would have wanted my husband to be happy, (while secretly I do want to claw the eyes out of any girl who even looks his way), but I can't be selfish like that. Everyone deserves to be happy.
I think widows, (I HATE that word) feel guilty to be happy. Like they are somehow betraying their dead husband. You aren't. While right now I still feel very married to Randy, and am happy to be that way, I do want to eventually be happy. Maybe even find a companion. Cause this being alone thing sucks. Being a single mom sucks. Going to bed by yourself at night - sucks.
I stare at my wedding ring at times and it feels like a strange facade. Like I am playing make believe, because I am not married anymore, I am single. Which I DO NOT want to be...but I am. I hate that so much. It, for *me*, is the worst. Being single. I won't say widow anymore. That word seems so doom and gloom. So whoa is me. So 1940s. Like I should be wearing all black and have my sensible stockings and comfortable shoes. I am young! I have lots of life yet to live.
So while Sundays might define me...being a widow will not.