I want to be alone but I don’t want to be alone. This is the dilemma.
I walk into the house after a night out and feel a pain in my gut—a fresh reminder that Adrian is dead, that I live alone, that my house is empty. This pain feels especially sharp after a particularly good time out with family and friends.
I let it pass.
Actually, I push it out of my consciousness by eating food, drinking wine, and watching a Netflix video. I tell myself that this is just my way of winding down, but it’s more than that. It’s my preferred escape route.
When Adrian was alive, I loved being home alone. It was a treat that I wished for more of.
And now I have it in abundance.
I am fine while working during the day. That’s when alone time is best. But I haven’t gotten used to being alone in the evenings, going to bed alone, or waking up alone.
In the morning I wake up and while still half asleep, I try to remember my dreams. In these dreams the younger, healthy Adrian often visits me.
These dreams are mundane with nothing dramatic in the story-lines, but of much comfort because he is there.
After reviewing my dreams, I open my eyes and remember that I am alone. I live in an empty house.
After a few minutes, I shake off the hollow feeling and get up.
I think some of us try to fill the gap as quickly as possible after a spouse dies. If we have children still living at home, it must be easier. Just having my daughter and her family living nearby, seeing them once or twice a week, is a tremendous comfort to me.
I don’t relish the idea of searching for another mate. The process itself feels repugnant. And I’m not looking for another whole new family to attach myself to. I have enough family and stepfamily. And I have history with them.
I circle around the labyrinth, alone at the center, where I want to be but don’t want to be.
