Give Me a Dark Cloud so I May Feel



This second year without B has engulfed me.
Today five years ago we were sitting in a pool at the Y. Tomorrow is another marked day when B fell in our home and never slept in his own bed again.
I try to refrain from telling other friends how much I miss him.
I can sense their impatience, I can see their eyes glaze over and their minds drift. There is never an opening for conversation its always the same responses.
You have so much to look forward to; YOu have great talent; bla bla bla.
I hope you don’t find me critical. But I do seem to be don’t I. The house is full of corners filled with clothing cast on the floor. Sketchbooks all over the place. Boxes filled with books. My bed is becoming heavier with the duvets I can barely turn over. The feather mattresses  seem to feel like quicksand.
Am I approaching a new door? Is my refuge changing? I like that first thought of the morning. The walk to splash water on my face then lean in and look at the person looking back. I like the making of the morning coffee then tapping my fingers on the counter till an sizeable first cup drips down. The shaking of the soya milk carton to get all foamy so I can have  a frapped coffee. Then I start to think of getting back into bed when the sun goes down. I seem to use up time impatiently so the day would end.
I wait for 5pm so I can smile during my favourite show The Gilmore Girls. I sit curled up in my nest of rattan. The phone may ring but I can’t pick it up. Instead I look at it, listening to the five rings. Sometimes I feel up to it and pick it up when I hear a voice that allows me to speak everything I feel and think, J my friend that shares my birthday and is a widow as well.
We give each other permission to say, I can’t live another day! I hate living! It kills me to see others ill when they want to live, yet we want nothing more then to die. Life is truly unfair. J allows me to say these things out loud so they don’t continue to walk in my brain. We need to speak but our world does not like opening the door of death. Yet it is what we will all have to do.  Why is there so little preparation our world?

My Days are Repeats

Another day is upon me.

I sit, here, at this screen. The sun lighting the horizontal window that occupies the upper half of the wall. Vertical blinds dissect the view like cut on paper. For a second I think of the possibilities of this day. Then as quickly as it came it goes and becomes a rerun of all these days before. Days where I am full of shoulds  that end up as have nots. I feel my mind rushing the day so it will land at 5pm. when I can watch The Gilmour Girls my new favourite show. Then I can run to bed where I am surrounded by feathered things and I can sleep again. But the mornings come too soon and I am here again. 

When I sleep I don’t have to think of packing. I don’t have to think of where I will live or how I will pay for rent. I don’t have to think about the show that I have been working on that is not going to happen because he says it must have been a misunderstanding. The show was my anchor to sanity and life. I focused on it like I focused on caring for B. 

I know! I know! I know! I sound like my sisters! 

I know I should just find another venue.

I know I should just polish my bronzes.

I know I should just finish my paintings.

I know I should pack his clothes and ……………………………

I can’t. His runners still sit on the floor. His photos are multiplying in frames.

I can only write here for no one hears or judges.

A friend said she does not understand people who blog. The way they pour out feelings that should remain private. But I am one of those people! I am one of those bloggers that feels some sort of need to speak to strangers, or the open world out there where no one knows us. Are strangers more sympathetic? No. With family and friends they know us and think that they are helping by telling us what to do. They worry about us and that is what makes us go to blog I think. Strangers don’t have personal interest. Strangers don’t know what our eyes look like when they are filled with pain. Such pain that meds don’t even help. They do keep us from crossing the line perhaps. I want to be taken care of and be able to sleep for another year. I know if I sleep my mind will defragment itself and I will be better. I feel ashamed. Odd. How odd to feel shame for feeling like this. How odd.




What to Do, What to Do

Are friends comments really meant to help us?

Do we really need that much of a push?

Does our grieving really concern them or does it just annoy them?

Are they really pushing or am I making that interruption?

How do we know when it may be time to call in for re-enforcments? 

Will that just be perceived as another attention getting?

Fact: The doors are looking more inviting all the time.

Fact: I do not have the courage it takes to do the right thing.

Fact: I was focused. I had a plan, a mission to share and expose Grief as I saw it.

Fact: That plan was removed as an option from me.

Question: Is that a sign that I should not exhibit my show?

Question: If I am to follow my gut instinct, what Is it saying? Do I have to refine it? Is it not yet         ready? Is it too personal? Do people really want to have this in their homes? Am I being a narcissus? Could I just be so in love with pain that I am keeping myself from healing, from moving on? Others move on. Don’t they? 

How can I ignore all the memories that continue to run through my veins. The memories of 32 plus years in creating. Is it? because I’m that kind of an artist that I will the blood to flow as it has. Is it because I am that kind of an artist that I am now in that flow retracing every moment, trying to see it in objective angles.

While I sit here in front of my wall of paintings I am thinking that I possibly have not gone far enough. Maybe I am still walking the line, unable to explore it all further. But in exposing it further will I just be demoralizing B for my own self glorification?

I do not take this lightly. I do not want the easy way out and say this is me. Not if it will tarnish another’s life. One of B’s doctors said to me, ” B’s has a great history with is accomplishments and art do you what his illness and final years to be the dominant memory of him?

This thought weighs in me. To expose the horror of a disease will I be clouding the beauty of his work? B always went for showing beauty in his art. He did tell me that he admired my ability to expose the pain and horror in my work. He called me ‘an artist’s artist’. So with that in my mind just now I have further thinking to do. I have to find a calm place to discover the answer.

This week he has visited me in my dreams nearly every night that I can remember. Perhaps that is why I want to sleep so much.



My Books

Today I thought for some reason that I would have the emotional energy to start packing. 

I started with what is near to me, MY BOOKS. I thought I would finally catalogue them and put them in rubber containers to protect them. Instead they are all around me and I am dreaming of the times we have had. All those wonderful first dates. Walking through second hand book stores letting my hand with fingers open, run over each rib. Little electric charges waking my finger tips.

I totally LOVE my Books! They represent bits of sweat and blood from great people who are free of the mind to put things in line form and expose themselves. When I look at them I see friends, confidants. I see exposed hearts. Books represent courage. They are moments of craziness put in word form to ease the pressure in our minds. Writers and Artists are on the front line of life. Exploring it Exposing it. 

For two days I have taken my max dose of anti depressant, so I am feeling what used to be normal. Well at least now I am. I have learned that moods of calm and grown up feeling are just moments. I don’t hang around waiting for them but they are nice when they hit. If I felt normal all the time I could do so much! I would make the lists and follow them. I would organize things, I would have dinner parties, I would start a garden, I would read an entire book.


But hopefully that will be one day………..

Today I am caressing my books, I am mending an afghan, I am watching a movie, I am writing on my blog.


The start of sixteen months

Dear Diary Nov. 12/13

I watch people around me moving on. Everyday someone finds their ticket and seemingly move on.

Do I feel envy?

Do I feel betrayal?

Do I feel anger?


Right now I feel such anger that my friend is not being shown the proper respect in grieving her. I am trying to be happy for them, but what I would really like to do is slap him for not grieving longer. My friend’s memory is being edged aside. At least that is how I feel. Was she not loved more then that? I feel its wrong for me to even question it all. I am now on my own, alone to continue this trip this journey this path.

I can’t seem to  even invite an idea of moving on. Why is it so important for everyone that we get on with things?  Again all I can think of is going somewhere where I will not be encouraged to be happy. Society places such importance on this that if you don’t smile you are critisized or frowned upon. Over the period of 24 hours I smiled, I laughed very hard, I made jokes, I drank, I was positive in every thought! then when I got back in town I drove through the city  in a storm franticly putting items in shopping carts then putting them all back and going to another store etc etc. I was so tired from trying to be happy for others and pretending to be personally happy as well. I exhausted myself but I could not sleep till past 3am. Today I am all worn out. I feel like I am a piece of cotton that has been blowing in the wind endlessly. All its edges frayed and the colours faded.

I think of the light often. That white doorway that has no sharp edges. The light that is so pure and inviting. Close your eyes, look into the light feel the peace.

Today is the beginning of 16 months. Sixteen Months! Seems so long but I don’t feel that I have walked far at all. I hear him speaking to me in my mind often. At times I can nearly carry on a conversation with him. Its so effortless.  Tomorrow I must remove his name from my accounts. Last week they punched holes in his passport. I want to hold on to him but the world says NO.

I can understand how some might break from the pressure to conform. In our lives we are woven together with every thought every act every word spoken only to each other. These keep wrapping around us. I was with B for 32 years! every day possibly minus 2 weeks accumulated days away. We worked together, ate, partied, made love, played hookie, vacationed, shared our inner most emotions 24/7 as they say.

So…. Please do tell me how I am to unravel all of this in 16 month? Its unfair for the public and friends and family to expect this of us! How dare they minimize what we felt for each other.

Unraveling hurts for its like fine roots that grow together creating a strong structure. When they get pulled off and apart, the ground is disrupted. It falls and exposes more roots casing them to dry and die. Then the tree dies as well. For its been shocked.

I have to find a way to let the unraveling happen on its own time otherwise I too will die like the tree. Too Symbolic?