I had a dose of reality recently upon having a friend make an impromptu visit to my apartment. My living arrangements are far from ideal. I blame it on the perpetual exhaustion of being in season, but in actuality it’s a form of self-harm. This is painful to write because the mirror was plastered all around me and there was no avoiding it. I need to start taking care of myself better. There’s something that happens with widowhood; when the person you love dies, the love for yourself dies too. I’m just really good at covering up my self-loath, unfortunately when someone enters the belly of the beast– aka my apartment– it is glaringly obvious.
This is starting to sound like I live on piles of trash. That isn’t the case at all. I should vacuum more often because I have a dog, and there’s dog hair. But I don’t tend to it as well as I should. There’s unfinished projects of furniture that need to be built and my clothes are not in the closets… Partly because the closets are used as storage. You see, I’m slowly piecing my new life back together, but there’s still some things I avoid because it’s too painful. One of which is I have yet to get rid of George’s clothes…
Luckily my mom came and visited me yesterday and we talked a bit about losing George and where I am right now. It hurts, some days more than others. I’m terrified of letting people in because I don’t want to forget what I had. But that’s not any way to live. But it’s a gauntlet of emotions that I have to hurdle and sift through as these pillars start to form. It’s so easy to leave the debris on the ground, it’s the reconstruction that’s the brutality of it all.
My summer project is to take care of myself. To figure things out. To get a foundation for what comes next, rather than tiptoeing around the wreckage.