I'm an emotional mess. It seems that I'm having one of those days. Feel free to run for cover and ignore this letter.
I slept again last night, but I'm too old to miss two nights' sleep in one week without feeling it. I woke up this morning feeling like I was getting sick. I went to work and got done in six hours and came home. There's baseball and basketball on television, but I can't make myself care about any of it. Facebook even made me irritable tonight - I don't want to hear anybody's oblique hints about their dysfunctional family, disappointing boyfriends, or displeasure with politics. I believe I need to sleep for a week.
There are a couple of things operating here. First, as I said, I can't miss two nights' sleep in one week without paying for it. Second, the fibro flare that cost me the two nights' sleep is playing havoc with all of me. Third, every fibro flare, now that you're not here, reminds me how tenuous is my ability to support myself. Fourth, and the root of it all, you're not here. On the way home I heard "Don't Fear the Reaper." I informed the radio that it isn't the reaper that I fear - it's being alive that scares me.
I need to have a good cry. I'm overdue. I'm being unreasonably anxious about things, which has always been a sign that I'm beyond tired. I was cuddling with Hunter tonight, and was reflecting on all the things that had to happen for him to end up here. And I realized that the God Who takes so much care to provide for an abandoned kitten, and the human and dog that needed him, cannot be unaware of the struggles of widows and orphans.
Widowhood stinks. I may have expressed that opinion once or twice. Today my forest is dark. Tomorrow it will be better. I'll go to bed soon and have that good cry, and I'll wake up happier. Widowhood will still stink. But I'll put a clothespin on my nose and carry on. The butterflies' wings will heal and the sun will come out. For tonight, I'll whistle in the dark.
Love you more than I can say,