Last weekend it occurred to me that I could have done more, or there were things I could have done differently to have saved him. Of course there was nothing I could have done. Furthermore, nothing I did or didn’t do deserves this, this way we are now, these things that happen to us now. I shrugged it off and proceeded to mop, or whatever I was doing.
But those thoughts kept coming, all week long. They battered at me. They were relentless. The barrage of thoughts, the constant conflict, exhausted me. I took so many naps last week, I lost count. By the end of the week, I couldn’t fend them off anymore, and I capitulated. I figured that I got what I deserve. I can’t have nice things. I had this kind, handsome, funny man, and I couldn’t hold onto him. He slipped out of my grasp. I lost him. That’s what I deserve. I didn’t deserve him, and I don’t deserve happiness.
That was the state in which I met my professional caretakers at our appointments. I shared my depressive thoughts. They hardly batted an eyelash. I am passing through a stage of grief, they explained. My recent physical improvement probably opened me up to it. I got stronger, but rather than things getting easier in turn, harder things came at me. Strength just means that I’m able to withstand more.
I take comfort in knowing that I’m just caught up in a larger system. So I accepted that. But, wow, progress is painful.