This morning I reached a new energy low. I got up early for church, took my shower, ate my bowl of oatmeal (since I can't fast before communion while I'm on cymbalta), read about the saints commemorated today, and woke up an hour and a half later with my head almost in the oatmeal bowl, and the time way too late to get to church. I suppose I must have needed the rest. So I put away the oatmeal bowl, changed clothes, and slept for another hour. In the afternoon I took another nap, this time for an hour and a half again.
There wasn't much on television and I certainly didn't feel like doing anything that required effort. So I watched The Philadelphia Story on DVD, and discovered that the happy-ending-love-story was depressing. So I went to default - Investigation Discovery - and watched too many woman murdering their husbands. I'm better with that than I was last winter, when I wanted to crawl through the screen and strangle them with my own hands. Now it just makes me so sad. Here are these women murdering their husbands, sometimes for no reason, when the only thing in this world that I want is to have my husband back.
I think it all got under my skin and into my head - before long I was getting teary and feeling like I hadn't treated you well at all and had made your life miserable. I knew what you'd say. I knew what you had said when we were in Indy, when you wanted to be sure I knew that you had been happier with me than you had ever thought it possible for a person to be. Hearing it from myself was making no impact on me. So I told Jen how I was feeling and she Gibbs-slapped me. And now I feel much better.
So what's a widow to do? Seeing shows about happy marriages is depressing. Seeing shows about marital breakups - with or without homicide - is depressing. Watching sports without you is depressing. That leaves The Haunted Collector. I seem to be more sensitive to it today than I usually am; it likely has to do with being tired enough to sleep with my face in the oatmeal bowl. When I'm tired my emotional resistance goes down and I lose some of my ability to be detached. I also get silly and illogical. Let's just cut to the chase: I get mush-brained. I shouldn't be allowed out on the streets.
Maybe the moral of this is to not let myself get that tired. For starters, it would improve my church attendance. It would also help my emotional well-being. What exhausted me this week was spending all of Thursday on the phone arguing with people about your date of death. It was a good decision to call in the cavalry, and I won't hesitate to go nuclear if I need to. I want a swift and permanent end to this.
I know you love me, and I know you were happy with me. Thank you for being sure that I always knew that. And again, thank you for never murdering me yet. And don't worry - I don't get so far gone that I can't realize how far gone I am, and Jen is more than happy to Gibbs-slap me for you. I'll try to be a little gentler with myself. The Thanksgiving break will be good for me. I suppose all of us are prone to occasional bouts of silliness.
If you can, come hug me tonight, or visit my dreams, or something to reassure me a little. And, as always, please pray for me. And Anthem. And COBRA. And Michiana Multi-Specialty. And Superior Ambulance. And anybody else that's involved in the schemozzel. Pray to God to un-schemozzel it. Don't worry - I'm sure He understands Yiddish.
Love you and adore you,