Run Run Run Away

In counseling, I discovered mindfulness.

A concept Roger had tried to teach me for the entire three years we were together.

I practiced it in the car.

While falling asleep.

In the shower.

And mostly, while running.

When I was running, I would notice the wind.

Describe the wind to myself.

I would notice all the noises.

The dogs barking, the cars driving by, the A/C turning on, the children playing, and some garage door opening.

I would try to describe each particular sound as scientifically as possible.

I would try to notice each and every sound.

When I was running, I would try to feel.

Feel my feet hitting the ground, the wind on my face, my heart rate, the temperature.

I would describe each feeling to myself.

It was a way to calm me.

A way to focus.

A way to de-stress.

An added benefit was exercise.

And weight-loss.

Then in July, I came crashing down.

I fell down a set of steps.

I sprained my ankle.

Severely sprained.

I could not run.

During one of the (many) hardest months, August, I did not have my running.

My one sure way to de-stress.

Four months later, I am in a cast.

For at least a month, maybe three.

It seems my ankle was healing incorrectly.

The pain and swelling I continued to have was not normal like I wanted to believe.

And with the encouragement of my friends and family (READ: forced), I was finally treated right before Halloween.

Again, I am having another really tough time as the holidays approach.

And I cannot de-stress in the way I enjoy.

I have gained five pounds since July as well.

A bit of depression has settled in around me.

I just want to run.

I want to run away from all of this.

And I can't.

I am stuck.

Waiting to heal.

Waiting to heal.

Traditions

When I was a little girl, Thanksgiving was celebrated at my grandparents house.

Then my grandparents started to die off.

And so did Thanksgiving traditions.

Then I moved away, and Thanksgiving had even less tradition for me.

I celebrated with various people through the years.

Chicago, New York, Orlando.

But I rarely went back home.

When Roger and I started officially dated, it was only a few weeks before Thanksgiving.

Although we called each other, I celebrated with an old friend from New York and her family in West Florida.

Roger celebrated with his sister and mom here in Orlando.

That was their tradition.

His mom and sister would travel to Orlando.

Roger would make the turkey.

Other people from his family would come to his house.

He was the tradition for Thanksgiving.

By the following Thanksgiving, we were engaged.

Roger cooked the turkey.

I helped with the sides.

I was excited.

It was time for a new tradition.

Thanksgiving was ours.

I was happy.

It felt perfect.

The following year, Thanksgiving 2007, I bought the roasting pan for the turkey.

I convinced Roger it was a good investment.

Instead of buying the disposable aluminum turkey pans, we would have a real pan.

It was on sale and in seven to eight Thanksgivings it would have paid for itself.

We were being green.

We had his cousin and his wife over for Thanksgiving.

And their four girls.

And Roger's sister and his mom.

And Roger and me.

In the new house.

Roger's mom prayed for little pitter patter of feet.

Not just of the cats.

But Thanksgiving is not at my house anymore.

Not last year.

Not this year.

The pan was used just the one time.

One fucking time.

No one comes to my house for Thanksgiving anymore.

I had a Thanksgiving tradition.

Had.

Now I am back to being a nomad.

Trying to figure out where I will be for this holiday.

Or the next.

Trying to find my place again.

I feel tradition-less again.

Crap...

In the Wee Hours of the Night

When I am alone,

I cry.

The tears just fall.

The memories flood.

I cry just to cry.

It is like all the feelings I have been distracted from bubble up.

Deep from within me.

And sometimes I cannot stop it.

Like last night and into today.

But I do not want to call anyone.

I do not want to be with anyone.

I do not want to show anyone.

I just want to release these feelings.

Get them out of my body.

And then I find myself just awake.

In a way, I do not want to go to sleep.

I do not even fathom going to sleep until my eyes will not stay open anymore.

Until exhaustion has completely set in.

Then I go to my bed and just collapse.

I won't even wash my face.

Or brush my teeth.

Just collapse.

Snuggle under the covers.

Burrow into my pillow.

And cry.

"Daddy's Little Boy"

Two of my good friends are having a baby.

A baby boy.

I am very happy for them.

I am very excited for them.

This is a planned child and I know they will be exceptional parents.

Because I care about both of them.

I wanted to plan a shower for the mother-to-be.

I felt like after all they had done for me in the last year, I wanted to give back.

The shower is on Sunday so I am in the last minute throws of party planning.

Today I was shopping for my actual shower gift.

I printed out the registry.

Made my way to the baby section.

Navigated through all the baby stuff to the actual gift item on the registry.

But of course I wanted to add some cute outfits for the new baby boy.

And of course, I almost had a meltdown.

A cute blue onesie.

"Daddy's Little Boy."

Tears started to form.

I started to get flustered.

I have been thinking about it all evening.

I know, I know, I know that this can still be a possibility for me.

But it will never be a possibility for Roger.

It will never be a possibility for Roger and me.

Yes, we were not really planning on having kids.

Both of us were heavily leaning toward no.

But I cannot get over his journal.

The one where he wrote about a dream he had.

And how he wrote, "I hope I am a great father someday."

Not that we had time.

We were only married six months.

Six months...

I know he would have been an amazing dad.

And he truly would have had a "Daddy's Little Boy" t-shirt or maybe even "Daddy's Little Princess."

Sigh...

Little "Roger"

For the last few of weeks and for the next coming weeks, I am teaching a 7th grade class about self awareness, staying in school, self budgeting, etc.

It is going well for the most part.

But there is one little boy.

He has shaggy blond hair.

Glasses.

Light eyes.

Skinny.

Baggy clothes.

Sweet kid.

And every time I look at him.

I see Roger.

And every time I interact with him, he reminds me of Roger.

Last week he told me how he wanted to be an architect.

How he loves looking at blue prints.

How his mom got him this new cool thing.

Roger was into drafting in high school.

I still have some of his supplies.

Then today as I was helping the class play a game in groups.

He was asking me a question about a particular "go back to the beginning" rule in the game.

His group was right.

He was wrong.

And he says to me: "Well, you can't blame a guy for trying."

I could not help but laugh instantly.

But I wanted to also cry.

This was Roger's philosophy most of the time in life.

He applied for all sorts of jobs, even if he was not exactly qualified.

He told me stories of how he flirted with every girl in a bar, even if he knew he might not get them.

Because "you can't blame a guy for trying."

I wonder if this will happen in the future when I meet other children.

Or people in general I guess.

I know Mr. X is a lot more like Roger than I initially thought.

And that scares me some times.

But I wonder if other children I teach will be little "Rogers".

I cannot help but feel a connection to this child.

Plus he actually participates in class.

Listens to me.

And tries.

The Grief Flu

I think something is going around.

But it's only contagious for a select few.

I think some of the other widow/widower bloggers I know are going through a similar thing.

The grief flu.

I feel tired.

Exhausted.

I have a zillion things to do for school, home, and upcoming parties.

But all I want to do is nap.

And chill out.

Watch TV.

Eat horrible, crap food.

Not move.

It is a struggle for me to make plans with people.

I would rather just be at home.

I just want to curl up with a good book and a blanket and read.

Or sleep.

My body feels heavy.

I do not really feel like eating real meals.

Especially cooking.

I do not feel like going to the grocery store.

I do not want to clean my house.

Or take out the trash.

Clean a litter box.

I just want to be.

I do not want to make any decisions.

I hate having to pick out clothing.

I do not want to shower.

Or cut my finger nails.

Or brush my teeth.

I do not have the energy for it.

I just have enough energy to wake up.

To get out of bed.

But beyond that, everything is a struggle to get the energy for.

Which is bad since I have having 25 people over on Saturday.

Hopefully this is just a 24-48 hour flu.

Although it has already been longer than that.

Perhaps it is time for more counseling.

Sigh... the grief flu...

Halloween

Halloween is on Saturday.

Three years ago on Halloween, Roger and I got engaged.

So much has changed in those three years.

We moved in together.

We bought a house.

We became landlords.

Roger got a passport.

We got married.

Roger died.

It amazes me even how much I have changed too.

And now how different my life is.

I am single again.

Not working.

In school full-time.

And dating a wonderful guy - Mr. X.

But not with Roger which seems odd for only being engaged three years ago.

I am having our-turned-my annual Halloween party this weekend.

Once again without Roger.

Once again with the amazing support of many friends.

The weird thing is I am reusing an old costume.

The same costume I wore the day I got engaged.

I did not really think about it till today when I pulled it into the house for it to get a makeover.

A lot like me.

Same bones. New girl.

Now as long as I can put on my party face instead of the way I feel at this moment, that will be good.

I will try.

I will put on a mask and try.