widowhood
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Coming back to yourself
Trauma and grief can make you forget who you are. For 100 days, I woke up, I made coffee, I drove to the hospital an hour away, I spent the day advocating for my husband who was slipping away a little bit more every day, I probably remembered to eat, I kept everyone updated, and
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Recurring dreams of home. But not home. But, home.
I’ve been staring at the TV for about 15 minutes while one gunfire scene has been playing. How do they not run out of bullets? I swear, there is some dumb shit out there and tonight it’s on my TV. My back hurts because I’ve been leaning over a lot today, and it’s only 8:30
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That little voice in your head
Maybe there’s a dirty mug in the sink, with a spoon in it. Maybe you forgot to clean the crumbs off the cutting board from your cinnamon toast snack the night before. Or didn’t wipe off the stove after cooking that hamburger for dinner. Then that little voice in your head pipes up. “Look at
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Dear Tim; we need to talk about our bathroom
By that I mean “my bathroom,” but whatever. You’re still here a lot, in my head. When we first came to look at this place, I couldn’t help but laugh when we went into the master bedroom and bathroom suite. I think the whole thing was the size of my first apartment… and the bathroom
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A gray immovable rock in glass-smooth water
Here’s the thing about coming out of a narcissistic fog. You haven’t just lost your time; you’ve lost your “spark.” You’ve spent so long being a background character in their psychodrama that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have your own plotline. The Art of Becoming a “Gray Rock” Before you can find your joy,
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More Than a Little Tired: The State of the Place
Here’s where I am right now. I wanted to take two weeks off at Christmas to have a little physical (and mental) down-time and be able to spend a good five or six days doing an extreme clean on my studio, without having to post bland social media pretending to do things when I was
