Six Years

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.

August 22nd

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.

Slainte!