Summer sucks for me anymore. On July 5, 2009, my husband turned 60. On August 2, he died. It was sudden, unexpected. Devastating. Eight years later, I’m still reeling.
I also find myself using that time between July 5 and August 2 as an excuse to indulge. I indulge in sloth, in gluttony. I drink too much. I don’t exercise much. Projects go by the wayside. I let the plants die because I can’t bring myself to water them. I stop writing because I really don’t want to know what’s in my head.
It’s stupid. It’s self-destructive. It’s wrong. Wrong for me, anyway, and these days I’m trying hard to concentrate on what’s right and wrong for me. What’s good or what’s bad. What’s healthy or what’s not. I’m trying real hard to keep my judgments and advice focused on me.
At the same time, I’m trying to be more honest in my dealings with people, friends and family mostly. I’m trying to be truthful and not just say things they want to hear because it’s easier than stating what I think. I’ve always avoided confrontations. Now, not so much. My inner snark seems to have found a home front and center. And it dearly loves to come out and play.
It’s not to say I’ve become bitchy and mean. I hope I haven’t. I don’t want that. I think I’m bored. Bored of listening to the same whines about what Mom did or didn’t do and how mistreated everyone is. We’ve all been mistreated. We’ve all been mean. It’s time to get over it and move on. What I want is to be able to look myself in the mirror and say, “you told the truth.” And the first person I’m truthing is me.
I’m done using Jessie’s death as an excuse. There are too many wonderful things in the world. Why get mired down in sadness and self-indulgent excuses?
The pity party is over.