I wake up and wonder, “What are my obligations today?” Do I have to leave the house? Is someone expecting a call or visit from me?
Whew! I made it to the hairdressers, a two-minute drive from my house, and managed to respond to conversations like a normal person and to get safely back to my car and home.
Whew! I managed to walk my full garbage can all the way to the end of our little road to leave it for pick-up on Monday morning. No neighbors intervened, but I wore my sunglasses for protection nonetheless.
A noise—the UPS man. He likes to say, “Hi, Lynne,” when he drops off a package or picks up a painting for delivery. He can say “Hi, Lynne” because my name is on the package, but I don’t know his name. And I don’t ask.
Is my lunacy becoming an overwhelming force that will carry me too far to ever come back?
Or is all this still and simply that I haven’t yet gotten used to living alone?
My mind is a cavern and every thought echoes off the walls.
Ungrounded—that’s what I feel. I don’t know how to be when being is just me.
It’s been over a year and a half since Adrian died. How could I still be so unmoored by living alone?
There isn’t anyone else I want to live with. I like being alone, and treasured the time I was able to do that when Adrian was alive. Time alone was precious then.
Now it is making me crazy.
No.
Yes. All the uncertainty I felt at eighteen when I looked into a mirror and didn’t know who I was—it’s coming back.
Then I listen to a friend tell me of her nightmares and insecurities. Are we all falling off the edge of the earth?
I’m a good listener, I’ve been told. That’s because I know better than to give advice unless someone specifically asks for it.
Maybe I could listen to myself, become a kinder and gentler friend to me.
“It’s OK to still be rattled by living alone,” I would say to me. “Do what makes you feel safe and comfortable.”
It’s OK to be a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Pamper her.
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