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Thursday, January 21, 2010

#15 Who Am I?


I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, trying to figure out who I am.  I’m no longer a wife and don’t want to make a career of being a widow.  The exquisite pain I suffered for 8 months and survived has taken a more subtle tone.  I find myself staring into space and thinking about My Dead Husband, sometimes even without tears.

I’ve been thinking about sex and starting to miss it.  Have I mentioned what a skilled and tender lover Clint was?  I haven’t had a sexy thought for 5 years, and my therapist is ecstatic that my libido is coming back.   And, yes, I bought myself a toy.  She says that in major depression, the first human urge to leave is the sex drive, and that it is one of the last to return as the depression lifts.  (I think the drugs and a sick husband played a major role, too).  Ann Carol says I am coming out of a long cycle of sadness that began years ago and had nothing to do with Clint’s illness or death.  I’ve known all along that my, depression, though separate from my grief, has been holding me back.

Maybe now I can deal with my grief without all the anger - read that rage.  Last week I thought about going to the Dollar Store to buy some things to break, but I didn’t do it.  I get a point for that.

So, I’m emerging from a years long sadness because my brain chemicals are fucked up, and Clint isn’t here to know it and be happy for me.  I still want him back.

So, what now?  I have applied for and been accepted into a nursing re-entry program, but that won’t begin until March.

I need to work, but a job is just part of who I am.  I feel my inner hippie beginning to emerge after years of hibernation.  My creative side is more energized, but I’m not sure where that is going.  I feel myself evolving into my own woman, but I have no idea where that is going either.  It’s exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.  I’ve decided to let it take it’s course and follow where it goes.

Do I really want to spend the rest of my life in this great big one horse town in this buttoned up neighborhood where every female (except me) walks or runs in black pants and a white top?  It’s some sort of unspoken dress code, I guess.  I think they hum “Ruby Redress” when they pass my house.  Jesus,  If they only knew.  But, can I leave my haven, my sweet little friendly house? It’s too soon to make that call.

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