I was looking through the Mesa Arts Center season brochure for 2018-2019 that came in recently. As I thumbed through the pages, several performances caught my attention, performances in normal times, Warren and I would have liked to attend. We had attended several wonderful performances at this beautiful venue and enjoyed them immensely. But these aren't normal times for me anymore.
As I read each short description, I knew I wouldn't be going to any of them. The idea of attending any of these performances doesn't appeal to me. I can't envision me initiating a trip to one of these evenings. It just doesn't feel right. At least not yet.
Places we used to go together seem off the radar to me right now. I've been to two of those places recently and while they were pleasant experiences, I viewed them through different eyes, eyes that had tears hiding behind them.
I know these types of memories will continue to pop up, reminding me of the wonderfully happy times we spent together, doing things we loved.
I wonder, too, as I continue to write about how I feel, about how I'm trying to cope with my new reality, whether friends and acquaintances are beginning to think I'm not making progress, not crawling out of my hole of despair, not trying hard enough to shake off the sadness, that I might be swimming in self-pity. No one has indicated that kind of thinking.... yet..... but the invisible antenna in my brain causes me to speculate about what they really think.
I personally feel some differences, albeit small ones. My meltdowns are mostly less intense even though they still occur. More of my 'conversations' with him revolve around happy memories. The intense anger I have felt for so long is slowly abating. I don't know what a timetable of grief looks like but I do know my own is crawling slowly along. And crawling is the key word. There is some movement. And, no matter how slowly it goes, that's progress.
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