Gotta Love the Federal Government Or Maybe Not

I am called by my middle name.

Always have.

As a kid, it was annoying.

I was shy and having to tell my teachers the first day of school to call me "Star" instead of my first name was a dreaded experience.

What would the teacher say?

What would the other kids think?

But over the years, I started to like it. 

I noticed that my name was a conversation piece.

People would always ask about my name.

"Where does it come from?"  "Who named you?"  "Are your parents hippies?"

And as an added bonus, I could tell who knew me when the phone rang depending on what name they used.

When I married Roger, it was easy legally to change my name.

I dropped my maiden last name and added Roger's last name.

Cool.

No problem really.

Except for just feeling weird about a new name.

When Mr. X and I become engaged, I was distraught with the name situation.

Mr. X wanted me to have his last name.

Which I get.  Which I want.

But how to change it?

I was concerned about my name being so long if I had four names.

And which parts go where into the standard three part forms if I had four?

And I did not want to drop "Star".

And I did not want to drop Roger's last name.

And I did not want to have a hyphenated last name after talking with some friends. 

What to do? What to do?

At least eight months of indecision, asking others, and debating within myself.

Finally I decided I would drop my first name. 

I got comfortable with that decision.

I got excited about my new upcoming name.

I made up my mind.

So when we came home from our honeymoon to find our marriage record, I was psyched. 

I could start the name change process.

First stop, the federal government's lovely Social Security Administration office.

I checked in.

Opened my book and started reading.

Miraculously after about thirty minutes, my number was called.

Cool.

But then bad news.

Federal government.  Homeland Security.

Cannot change my given first name in anyway.

Cannot be dropped.

Cannot be added to. 

First names must stay exactly the same.

Ugh.  Ugh.  UGH!

So I have four names now.

First Star Roger's Mr. X's. 

I have two middle names.

Which of course is the shortest field of most forms.

This should be fun... Sigh.

Federal government strikes again.

#585

You were a dork.
I was hesitant.
I was scared.
I fought back against falling for you.
You were my best friend.
You were patient.
And kind.
Slowly I got close to you.
You kept pulling me closer.
I let you in.
My walls came down.
I loved you.
You loved me.
I believed in marriage.
I was happy.
I was settled.
My soul felt content.
And complete.

And slowly you died.
Six long, long days.
Then gone.
You left.
My heart split wide open.
Exposed.
I love you still.

A Different Kind of Grief

I always think holidays are going to get better.
And in ways they do.
Of course, thoughts of Roger increase this time of year.
Missing him increases.
Especially with a new year approaching. A different year number.
It is quite a concrete reminder of exactly how far away Roger's physical existence is in my life.

And this year I have some new types of grief.
Like the loss of friends.

And I keep thinking about the loss of this particular "best friend".
Like always, hindsight is 20/20.
I keep slapping myself for being so naive.
So gullible. So believing. So stupid.
I should have seen it coming.
I should have seen the red flags over the last year.

We were supposed to be pregnant together.
And as your "best friend" you did not tell me when you changed your mind.
As someone who spent afternoons at your house sharing my life and trying to be the best friend I could be, you waited to tell me in a group of people that you were more than three months along.
And although I was very excited and happy for you, after a little digestion of the new information I kept thinking of how it should have been me.
If Roger had not died.
I did not know I would have this reaction.
I did not even see it coming till it was sitting on my lap in a group of eight people and I swallowed my grief for you.
But you said you knew my reaction would happen.
A best friend would have told me alone.
On one of the countless afternoons at your house.
But you didn't.

You were the one who gave me the title of best friend.
Yet not a single picture of you and me in your house.
Red f-ing flag.

The next red flag was at my graduation party.
My emotions were running high.  I needed you.
I graduated.
In the same room as Roger.
Because Roger died.
Because I could afford to go to school full time.
Because Roger was not there.
You offered your help.
I accepted. Stupid me.
Then you came five minutes before other guests.
Without helping at all.
You barely even spoke with me.
But again I forgave you.
I was the fool once more.

Giving you all I could for your baby shower.
The cake you wanted.
Driving four hours to be with you.
To celebrate you.
And trying to shower you with gifts to show how much I cared.
Stupid, stupid me.

Red flag again when picking out dresses for my wedding.
You could not leave me fast enough.
And when I mentioned coming to help you in your nursery.
I sensed the hostility.
But I ignored it.
Ignored the red flag flying in my face.
I ignored the sirens going off in my head.

Then to find out you did not want me at the hospital when your baby was born.
Or when complications arose.
To find out in a mass email message when others knew the day before.
What a shock to the system.

Then the email came.
All the hurtful things that were said to me.
To know that I was not loved.

What a fool I am.
What a stupid fool I am.
No more. No more.
But I still grieve.

"Family"

This Christmas was going to be the first.

The first time I (and Mr. X) went to Miami for Christmas since Roger's death.

The first time we were going to spend this holiday with Roger's family.

I was excited.

I was nervous.

I was looking forward to it.

I remember the Tuesday when the doctor wanted to speak to me in person.

The day when he told me all bets were off.

Roger was done.

"This is as good as it will get."

A million thoughts were running through my head.

And one big thought: I was going to lose Roger's family.

First, they would hate me.

Because of course this was all my fault. 

Second, they would leave me.

This wonderful gift of family that Roger had given to me was going to disappear.

But I was reassured.

I was told that would never happen.

"You will always be my prima."

"My niece, Star."

And I believed it.

Those who loved me before would love me still.

I believed it with my entire being.

In some ways, it is true.

Some of the family is still my family.

Like I feel so connected to Grace.

She is truly a big sister to me.

I can talk to her about anything.

I cannot imagine my life without her in it.

And sometimes, for a tiny, minuscule split second, I forget how we are connected.

How we both miss him.

How things would have been.

And in other ways, I feel the pulling.

Especially now that I am getting married again.

With June fast approaching.

Family that barely says anything to me when I am in the room.

Family that visits Orlando without even a peep. 

Family who will not even consider coming to my wedding to Mr. X.

So Gizmo's health this holiday season dictated that we would not go to Miami for Christmas.

We fear the stress of leaving her may hurt her kidneys more.

And I can almost feel the relief of some.

To know the Gringa will not be there.

Do they think I do not think of Roger daily?

That I have forgotten?

That because I am getting married I am over it all?

That I did not love him?

That I do not love him still?

That I cannot talk of Roger?

That they cannot talk of Roger?

Sigh... 

What would Roger think of you all now?   

I Am Not Surprised

I am one of the few Central Floridians who has not kept up with the Casey Anthony case.
Or many one of the few Americans?
It has been on every news station in Orlando for three years.
Every newspaper.
Everywhere in our community for three very long years.
The whole fascination with the thing has annoyed me.
I just want the whole thing to go away.
To be done.

Perhaps there is some weird association with it being the same summer Roger died.
Actually I am pretty sure that is one of my disgusts with it.
I just want people to move on with it.
Personally I have been avoiding the whole obsession.
I have started to hide people who constantly update their status on facebook with the trial.
One friend even DVRs the trial coverage.
A few friends have given me a couple of updates here when I see them in person.

My response for the last few weeks... She is going to get away with it.
And guess what?
She did.

How did I know?
Because of my own experience with the court system.
Because I know it is never fair toward the victims.
I know that with enough money and enough lawyers people can get away with murder.
Murder of a child or murder of my husband.
I have been in that court house.
I have testified without any justice for Roger.
For me.
For us.

The Last Ten Days - Part I

The last ten days have been a huge emotional roller coaster.

Graduation was probably a climax of grief.
After my dad died in January, I was thrown into a highly stressful and busy time of my life.
And as any person who has suffered loss knows, grief does not just go away.
It builds and waits. And builds some more.
Like a volcano waiting to explode.
On the day of graduation, that volcano erupted.
Two grief volcanoes really.
Roger and my dad, simultaneously.

The first one I was almost expecting.
I knew the semester end and graduation were going to be a trigger for me.
I was mostly fine before graduation.
I was mostly fine minutes before I walked across the stage.
Excitement and elation filled my soul.

As I walked across the stage, my lips began to tremble.
The stairs exiting the stage seemed enormous.
Tears started to well up.
As I walked back to my seat, I was still a little shaky.
But no tears fell, thankfully.

After graduation, my friends and Mr. X met me outside.
We were throwing a party to celebrate my graduation.
There was still lots to be done.
Unfortunately, my friends could not come back to my house with me.
Mr. X and I were on our own to complete the party set up.
Suddenly I was stressed.
We had four hours to get everything done and there was a long list of things to be done.

Mr. X and I were working hard and fast to get everything done.
We prioritized the list and some extra things were cut.
I am a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to hosting parties.
As I was working on some food for the party, the onions Mr. X had so kindly prepped the night before were too big for the recipe.
Grief raised its ugly head.
I burst into tears.
Tears that consumed me for the rest of the afternoon.
Everything became a calamity.

I cried because this is not how I planned my life.
I was a smart teenager and should have finished my formal education years ago.
I was supposed to be married now and celebrating my third anniversary.
Roger and I were supposed to be planning vacations and talking about kid possibilities and when to start trying.
My dad was suppose to be calling me.
Telling me how proud he was.
But none of that was true.
None of that was happening.

Mr. X was being awesome.
He was trying to comfort me.
But it was pretty useless.
I cried for three hours.

After most of the list was complete for the party, I took half a bottle of champagne, went to the bedroom,
shut the door, and cried some more.

I finally surfaced from the debris of grief and tried to celebrate my accomplishment.
One of my widow friends came later to rescue me.
Let me cry.
Let me say all the things I can't say aloud to most people.

The next day I was still recovering from the eruption.
I still miss Roger.
I still miss my dad.
Those things will not go away ever.
But life is improving.

Part II soon...

Ten Years or Six Months

A few weeks ago one of my family members asked me if I would have another wedding.
I started to say "Yes, since Roger and I were only married six months but if we had been married ten years..." when this person said, "Yeah, it would have been harder to move on if you had been together ten years."
I interrupted them.
"No, it is not that."

Obviously I will never know what it would be like to be widowed at ten years of marriage to Roger.
I pray to God I never ever know what it is like to be married ten years then widowed.
But for me, it was more about my future and plans were gone.
I never had a chance to have Roger's babies.
To plan anniversary trips.
To decorate our house together.
To fight about how much money to spend on Christmas.
To get to the point where we finished each other's sentences 100% of the time.
And that among other things was so hard.
I never even made it to my first wedding anniversary.

Would Roger and I have been closer after ten years?
Yes!! Absolutely.
But was only being married six months then widowed or being married ten years with all those plans completed worse??
I don't know.
But I am shocked still that people can think this road is easy because it was only six months of marriage.

Oh people...

Thirty

My daddy and me - May 2007

A few weeks ago when I was re-learning earth science for one of my certifications, I learned this term called constructive interference.

Basically, it is when two similar waves are in the same medium the waves combine into a bigger wave.

On Thursday afternoon, a new wave came.

My dad unexpectedly passed away.

I have been debating whether to write how he died but since this grief is a bit different, I will reveal.

Thursday morning, my dad committed suicide.  

He was not old.

He was not sick.

He was not in an accident.

He decided for himself the day he would die.

It was selfish and I am angry.

But I am also very very sad.

It is very unlike him.

I have other family members who threaten suicide like they are ordering dinner.  

But not my daddy.

Nope. 

He was happy go lucky.

He was always smiling and laughing.  

We did not have the closest relationship.

My parents separated and later divorced when I was four.  

It was a tremulous divorce to say the least.

My mother hated my father and she was not afraid to tell us.  

But when I was in my early twenties I realized it was not him.  

He did love me.  He did care about what I did.

I could call him and truly talk to him.  Not just a surface conversation.

The day I changed my last name.  I called my daddy.  

When Roger died, my daddy drove from Virginia to Florida to help me.  To be with me.

He was himself and talked with my friends.

He helped clean out my garage and organize Roger's tools.  

My daddy and I look alike.

We act alike.  

I am my father's daughter. Proudly.

When I look in the mirror, I see my daddy.  I have for years.

But now it is painful.

I forgot how all of this feels in the beginning.

How my body is heavier.

How I just feel low and blue.

How my attention starts to drift after just a few minutes.  

I thought I was feeling a bit better until I came back to my home in Florida.

Back to reality.

For the first time since Thursday afternoon, I am alone.

And I certainly feel it.  

I know this will be different. 

My daddy was not a part of my everyday life.  However, my heart is still broken.

I feel even more of every feeling for his wife.

I hate she has to start on this journey.  

Join the club no one wants to join.

I wondered how old I would be when one of my parents passed away.
Thirty.

PSA: Drugs Are Not Bad

My family has some history of addiction.
And I know there is some evidence that having the ability to be addicted to substances is genetic.
So... when Roger first died, I made a pledge not to drink until I felt more stable.
My first drink post Roger was at my first wedding.  Three months after Roger's death.
Again, it was just a few drinks and not to the point of drunkenness.
I still kept a close look at my drinking for a long while post-death.

I was also on anti-anxiety medication and I knew the drug interactions for that.
I saw them first hand back in 1999.
Seizures and death.
I watched my ex-boyfriend's mother die two days before Christmas as he had to decide to take her off life support.
Valium + alcohol = death.

About ten years ago, I met a lady who was recently divorced.
She had lived the perfect life, or so she thought.
Six years after her wedding, her husband confessed to cheating most of their marriage.
I later found out she was on Paxil.
I was shocked.
She was smart. She seemed so well put together.  She was a pharmacist so she knew the risks.
But she also knew she was in a situation and needed help.
I had never known someone who was on medications for depression.

The week Roger was dying, I only took the medication for my arm infection and some Benadryl to help me sleep.
But I believed I did not need drugs.
I was strong. I was tough.  I was offended by the thought of having to take drugs.

When I visited my own physician after Roger's death, he insisted on anti-anxiety medications.
I was not sleeping.  I could barely finish a thought.  I was extremely paranoid.
I needed help.
I stayed on them for a few months along with my counseling.

Drugs are not bad!  Again for emphasis, drugs are not bad nor the enemy.
Most of my friends and family have not experienced the pain and situation I have been through at my age.
Those people who think a widow or widower should go without drugs, especially during the first year or so need to keep their damn mouth shut.  It does not mean the person is less of a human for needing help.
Those who think a divorcee should go without drugs, especially during the first year, should go to hell.
Sometimes, people need help.
Asking for help makes us strong.

Drugs are there to help.
Yes, they have side effects.
Every single drug has side effects but they are worth the risk when someone is struggling to get through.
So I say lay off to those who feel they can judge.
Those who need the drugs, feel free.  Be responsible and take care of yourself.
Drugs are not bad.

Under Construction

Two days a week I have internship.
I chose this school on purpose but I did not think through the commute too well.
Roger's old house is off the same exit.
The crash site.
Yeah, it is on the commute as well.

I wrote about a long time ago about how the government put a sign up for me in his memory.
Strangely it was really far off the road.
I always wondered why.
People could not even see it was there.
It was upsetting.
I wanted it to remind not just me of the accident but also the other driver.

However, recently I think I may know why.
The road is starting to undergo construction.
So perhaps it will be closer to the road.

Because of all the construction, they have put up temporary barriers.
Part of me gets angry at those barriers.
Why could they not have been there two years ago?!
I have these visions of how different that morning would have been.
Perhaps we would have seen a SUV hitting the barrier.
But it would not have affected me.
It would not have affected Roger.  

But there were no barriers that morning.
Nothing to stop the destruction.

Need Me

I had to sort of giggle at a situation I came into the other day.

I have always been pretty independent.
Not antisocial but I always try to do things for myself.
It is the way I grew up.
I was left alone a lot.
I learned to keep myself entertained.
I learned to keep myself alive.
I learned to meet my own needs physically and emotionally.
Thus issues asking for help have always haunted me.

But after three years together, I was finally asking Roger for help.
I needed him.
As my walls fell down, he was trusted enough for me to need him.
But it took me a while to get to that point.

When he died, I was devastated that I had trusted him.
I let him in.
And when I needed him the most and he was dead.
I was pissed.
At me.
At Roger.
At the driver of that Isuzu Rodeo.

In the last two years, I have learned not to need people as much again.
To become completely independent again.
I am stubborn at points to let people help me.
Not to mention I get nervous about it.
Feel like I owe people.

Laying in bed Saturday night, Mr. X was a bit tiffed at me.
I had not woken him up when I had insomnia Friday night.
Instead I chatted with a friend online.
He was annoyed I did not wake him up.
On Saturday, he had driven me to a friend's house to "celebrate" the dead day anniversary.
But of course I had been difficult in letting him drive me.
I did not want to ask for his help or to feel like I needed it.
Plus it was inconvenient for him to drive me.
So I made a deal.
I would let him drive me if he went to see his parents too.

As we lay in bed that night I asked, "Why are you upset?"
"You won't let me help you."
Sigh...
"You won't let yourself need me."
I could not giggle at the moment.
But I was amused at the situation in a way.
I just hugged him and let him know that I do need him.
I need him a lot.

But I guess I need let my walls back down.
Let myself need.
Again.

Decisions

A few weeks ago, I was having dinner with some widow friends.
The three of us are all young, under thirty at the time.
All of our men died suddenly at young ages.
None of us have children.

We talked about how I have a place to put my anger.
A name even.
A face.
Someone to direct all the voices and shouting and mean thoughts.
Which is "nice" I think.
Their persons' deaths were not a result of an accident.
Or homicide.
Or even self inflicted.
Random heart issues.

And tonight as I tried to go to sleep (note the post time), I started thinking that they did not have to decide.
I had to make a decision.
I had to decide the time.
And the date.
I chose this day.
I had to chose the day my husband would die.
Forty-seven months after our first meeting, I chose his death day.
Three weeks after his birthday.

I hate that feeling.
Hate. Hate. Hate.

The Road

Way back I loved that road.
Before the accident.
Before it was my dreaded long everyday route to work.

I loved its gentle (Florida) hills.
I loved the 70 mph speed limit that I could do slightly higher on.
I loved the slight curves of the road.

The wildlife I would encounter is amazing.
Eagles soar above it.
The road crosses Lake Jessup so alligators swim below it.
And next to it.
As the sun comes up is just gorgeous.
Nests of these hawks sit on top of light poles.

The maintained landscaping and the natural Florida flora are beautiful.
Sand pines and long leaf pines.
Forget me nots.
Tall palm trees.
Short sebal palms.

It was a relaxing drive for me.
Especially while living on this side of Orlando.
It was a main mode of transportation at certain points of my life.
And I loved it.

But that changed after I had to drive more than half its length to get to a job I detested.
And after one of the worst weeks of my life, I hated the road down to the gravel.
I hated to be on it.
I hated to drive on it.
I hated to even think of it.

This past Friday night I was driving back from a friend's house.
Who happens to live off this road.
It was late.
My drive home included about about twenty minutes on this road.
Across the lake.
Up the gentle hills.
Around the curves.
Not many people were on the road.
I was playing a mix CD I made for myself.
The volume was way up.
And an old feeling started to find its way into my consciousness.
I found myself loving this road.
Enjoying the road.
Again.

My Arm

I hate the scar on my forearm from the accident.
For some reason, especially in the last few months, it seems to be in view all the time.
Every time I look down, it is there.
Every time I look in the mirror, it is there again.
Staring at me.

I thought it would look different by now.
I thought it would blend in more with my skin.
I thought the hair would grow normally like the rest of my arm.
Instead it is still very pink and darker skin tone.
The hair grows backwards.
The skin pulls strangely when I rotate my arm.
There is a strange light pink line that goes toward my hand from it.

The scar reminds me that I survived.
That my injuries were recoverable.
Roger did not survive and his injuries were too great.
With this scar staring at me, I will always have to live with some remembrance of the accident day on a constant basis.
Of course, I would probably remember every day anyway.
But the scar makes me think about the accident versus remembering Roger on everyday before August 22nd.

I have tried creams.
I take vitamins which did initially help some.
I just want it to be less obvious.
To be something I do not notice ALL the time.

MySpace Fail

I decided about a month ago I finally wanted to delete Roger's MySpace account.
I was getting strange comments and messages.
Plus, it was just starting to bug me that his profile was out there.
With pictures and his words floating in cyberspace.

In the two years I have had to deal with estate issues, deleting a MySpace account is up there in the top ten annoying and frustrating things I had to do.
I had access to his profile.
I could log in so of course I had access.
So you would think I could easily delete his profile.
Nope. Not at all.
I do not have access to his old AOL email account.
So I cannot complete the confirmation process of deleting it.

I emailed their helpdesk.
I needed to make a copy of his death certificate and prove my relationship with him.
Great...
I found a few moments yesterday (the joyous things I get to do in my spare time) and I scanned in a copy of his death certificate into a PDF.
Finally, I thought, I can get this done.

Nope.
The email address I was asked to send it to does not accept this type of attachments per the automatic response.
So I turned my husband's death certificate into a JPEG.
Same damn response.
The actual person kept replying they had not received any attachment.
Ugh!
I replied their firewall was blocking the attachments, dimwits.

The attachment must be smaller than 4MB.
Fine.
I edited my husband's death certificate in Photoshop to make it smaller.
Now that's not an odd sentence.
Sent again.
Same fucking response!

Real person replied.
Just fax it over.
Or put "Remove Profile" in his "About me" section.
No fax access. Just the "Remove Profile".
"We will submit the profile for removal consideration."
Consideration? CONSIDERATION!?!

Of all the crappy things I have been charged to do in this whole process.
I swear, fighting with MySpace has once again confirmed my dislike for the site.
Where is that dislike button?

My own MySpace is now gone gone gone.

#463

Some days I get really angry at the universe.
And beyond the normal grief reasons.
Beyond the normal car accident and widow reasons.

Simply for the reason that I feel like I was tricked.
Roger was my friend when we first met.
I was happy with him being my friend.
I loved him being my friend.

And then after two months I feel in love with him.
And for the next three years I fell further and further in love with him.

Then he was ripped away from me.
After I let him in.
After I become attached.
The universe took him away.

Some days I feel angry that I let myself fall for him.
That the universe put him there.
That somewhere someone knew this would happen and they let it happen.
It was an evil trick.
Like giving a child a game which was they were okay with but then the parent added more and more cool accessories to go with the game.
And once the child was addicted to the game, the parent burned it while laughing.

Ugh...

Unfair

I know every person who has ever lost anyone says: "This is unfair" or "Life is unfair" or some similar sentiment.
And this post is not directly related to my grief but it reinforces that feeling.
I feel like I am angrier because of grief.
Because life has been unfair to me.

Back in 2005, when I decided I had to quit my traveling consultant job, I tried to find a new job in New York City where I was living at the time.
I looked at Monster, Career Builder, and some other sources.
Every job I found that would work for me wanted a bachelors plus experience.
I had the experience.
But not the bachelors.
"Oh, you do not have a bachelors you cannot even apply."

It made me feel like I was subpar.
Like something was wrong with me.
Like I was not smart enough.
Like I was not good enough.
Like my experience, my core values, my work ethic, my entire being was not good enough.
I knew that given the chance I could have done any of those jobs amazingly.
But they would not give me the chance.

In November 2008, after Roger died and I decided I would return to school full time, I enrolled at University of Central Florida.
I thought, "I will finally have my bachelors.  I will finally be with the other 'good' people of the world."
And I erroneously thought, "People who are in college have similar core values and work ethic as me."

Unfairness strikes again.
People in college are not good people.
At least the sixty percent of them I come in contact with.
They cheat on exams.
They cheat for money.
They cheat for bonus points.
They cheat for their friends.
They cheat and cheat and cheat believing as long as it is helping themselves or a good friend it is okay.

People in college are lazy.
I have been involved with so many group projects with four people where two of us did all the work.
Despite complaints to the professor, they get away with it.
They get a good grade too.
And sometimes a similar grade as me.

So being a good person in life or in college does not pay off.
They will get their piece of paper.
They will have a bachelors.
They will be deemed "good" by potential employers.

Life is unfair.
The good guy does not always win.
The hare wins.
The hare wins despite what they tell you.

"You Don't Fit"

This past weekend I went to visit NYC.

I lived there for three years five years ago.

I loved it.

It was a dream fulfilled for me.

It was a great time of my life.

Great yummy food.

Diverse people.

Awesome public transportation.

Fantastic culture.

But I hated the cold winters.

I hated wearing a thick coat for months at a time.

I hated how expensive housing was.

I hated dating city guys.

I still enjoy visiting and try to do it once per year.

Last year, I had a meltdown before going so I did not make it.

In 2008, we had the wedding and then Roger died and thus I did not make it.

On this visit, I was overwhelmed with memories.

Memories of my life before Roger existed.

Before I was a widow.

A time when I was just free.

They were everywhere and connected to everything.

I felt a little out of place while I was in NYC.

I felt like I did not quite fit like I used to.

Not like I was a tourist but just different.

I quickly adjusted to NYC culture and small spaces.

I adjusted to the price of things.

To having cash instead of a debit card.

To eating fabulous food and drinking without having to drive.

But I felt off (and cold and wet due to crappy weather).

And then I had two separate friends at separate times say the worst things to me.

"You are not NYC material anymore."

"You could not do NYC again."

"You just don't fit."

Which is mostly true.

I left because I wanted to have a real house, routine, and find a real relationship.

I probably would have stayed at the time if I would have found a non-traveling job but I could not after searching for three months so off to Florida I went.

But I hate to be told I could not do something.

I am a bit stubborn.

After all I have been through, I can do pretty much anything I think.

I made it in NYC before. If I did it once, I could do it again.

But I do like my life in Florida.

I like having ample space.

I like having my friends here.

I like having Mr. X.

So I will visit once per year.

And later in life, if things change, perhaps I will do it again.

Because I can.

"All the single ladies..."

I went to a wedding last night.

It was hard.

February wedding.

About three weeks into the month.

It was eerily familiar. Just two years off.

I remember when I found out this couple were engaged.

The last day of my own honeymoon.

I kept my tears to a minimum.

I am pretty sure I hid it well.

At least people let me pretend I did.

It is the vows that get me the most.

"For the rest of your lives" or the traditional "Till death do you part."

And then the first dance.

I remember how happy I felt.

How on top of the world.

Only to come crashing down six short months later.

Then I get hit in the gut.

The fucking bouquet toss.

"All you single ladies come out to the floor," the DJ announces.

Followed by: "Those of you have never been married or have been divorced for at least six months."

Ugh.

Well, neither of those fit me now do they.

I bet the MC/DJ does not even think there may a recently widowed person there who might be slightly offended and annoyed.

I did not really want to go.

My friends insisted. I just wanted to sit there.

Two years ago I was tossing the bouquet.

Last night, I stood on the edge of the group of single ladies watching the bride happily toss hers to all the "single" ladies.

My hands behind my back.

I do want to get married again.

But I am not the typical single girl.

I do not want to catch that damn bouquet.

I had my own bouquet.

I am not single by choice.

I did not decide to be single.

And having Mr. X does NOT make it better.

Yes, he is a great guy.

But this is not a replacement game.

This is not "Oh you must be better now because you are dating."

It is like telling a child how a step-parent is a replacement for their missing Mom or Dad.

It is not the same.

Ugh...

B.I.A.

I understand associations want to reach out.

They want to help others in a similar place.

They want others to feel less alone and prepared.

And most of the time, it really helps those who are experiencing some sort of tragedy.

On Saturday, the day after the accident, I received a huge canvas bag from the Brain Injury Association.

It had pens, notepad, snacks, some toiletries, a blanket, a camera, telephone card.

And the one thing that did not help me at all - hope.

There were pamphlets of what was going on in Roger's head.

Answering some frequently asked questions.

Describing brain injuries.

And describing how so many people had recovered.

People in car accidents. People who were young.

They told me how Roger was going to recover.

How it would be a very slow process.

How he would have to learn to talk again.

And walk again.

And he may be grumpy.

How he would be discouraged but I had to stay positive.

It warned me how it would be draining and exhausting for me as well.

But they did not talk about what really happen to me.

It did not warn me that Roger would die.

It did not talk to me about what to do when he died.

And guess what...

He did not survive.

He would never recover.

He never got to speak to me again.

He never got to walk around.

Or touch me.

Or hug me.

No, Roger died.

The notepad did come in handy.

To note all the people and business of death.

The camera is somewhere in a drawer.

And I deleted all the pictures of Roger lying in the hospital bed on my own camera.

And I still have the stupid bag.

Somewhere.

I will probably have to throw it out when I find it again.

It makes me angry.

That bag was full of hope.

Full of dreams.

But not for Roger.

And definitely not for me.