One of the things that I realized recently is that sometimes it's just about impossible to keep feelings separated on things. Specifically, right now I hate what I'm having to go through. I still hate having to take care of the bills by myself. Ariel was always really good at keeping track of them and making sure things were covered on time. I've gotten a bit better, but I'm still not as good at it as she was. I also hate having to do all of the housework by myself. Even in the last couple years of her life, she still would occasionally do some to help with dishes or laundry. It wasn't ALL up to me.
I also hate the things I'm having to work through to deal with the grief over her suicide. I hate feeling afraid of opening up again, for fear of getting hurt just as badly again. Intellectually, I know the odds of that are low, especially if I keep in mind some of the things I've learned in the last couple of years. It doesn't seem to do much to change how it feels, though. I hate getting ambushed by grief by stupid little things that either never affected me before or used to bring smiles to my face. Drying fruit on the dehydrator. Singing in the shower. Sometimes rolling over too far onto “her” side of the bed. Looking at the fall leaves that've turned colors. Figuring out how to cook something new. Even as much as I've enjoyed learning what I have about cooking, it's very often at least tinged with some sadness and resentment.
The big one right now is dealing with a heart condition that reared its head about six months ago. See, I'd been there to help her through some nasty stuff of her own. The viral arthritis she had left her essentially nonfunctional for a couple of weeks,and struggling for some time after that. I was there for her through it. I brought her food or drinks or things to read. A few days, I had to help her in the bathroom because her hands and feet were so painful and swollen she couldn't take care of things for herself. Just being there to reassure her she's not alone, that there's someone around to help her out and take care of her. And now, when it's my turn to be sick and hurting and scared....she's not here. I'm having to deal with that all on my own. And it's hard to believe that this isn't at least in part from having a broken heart.
What's hard now is that it's sometimes really hard to keep the separation in place about hating my circumstances and the issues I have to deal with....from her. I know that she was lost and in pain. I know she was terrified of what other people would think if she told them the truth. I know she was terrified that I'd try to have her committed to a psych hospital. I know she wore herself down by abusing prescription and over-the-counter drugs to either be able to wake up or sleep. I know she loved me. But when my life now is hard, it's hard not to hate her for it.
The best I can think for now is to let it ride out. I try to remember what a wise friend one said to me: feelings aren't facts. I hope that, if I don't dwell on or ruminate (too much) about them, they'll resolve themselves and pass. I really don't want to hate her. I don't think that's good for either of us, not in the long run. And yet, for now, that's what I struggle with feeling.
No-one ever promised the route through Hell would be smooth or clear. Only that, if followed, one can eventually find their way to the bottom....and eventually out.
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