Thursday, August 22, 2013
Hard to believe, isn't it? Six years ago, Jim killed himself.
I have survived. I am no longer angry. I still get sad once in a while (read: often), but not sobbing-in-the-shower sad. Seeing a silver-haired, balding man on the street no longer gives me a turn.
I am 64 years old. I married Jim when I was 50 and we were married for seven years. That's less than one-tenth of my life.
For some reason, this post is difficult. I am wondering if I am feeling a bit guilty about not grieving as I have been all these years. I realize how silly that is, with friends who have been trying to fix me up with stray men in their circles...thinking that, if I'm not "over it," I should be.
I'm not really "over it." I may never be. I did love the man for 24 years, even though we were married for only seven.
So here we are, Dearly Beloved. Life goes on. If I had it to do over, I'd do the same thing. Even though I'm now old and fat. I probably would have been fat anyway, and I most assuredly would have been old.
So I slosh out some cheap vodka for Jim and drink a toast in a decent single malt Scotch, pull up my big (really big) girl panties and keep going.