misssylviadrake (misssylviadrake) wrote,

Winter Solstice rituals: why peculiarly painful

Sometimes I know that my heart is broken and what that phrase means. It refers to all that happened after my beloved's cancer metastasized. Everything that was and was not inflicted on him, how he behaved towards me (with all his courage and tender affection), so much emotional pain for me.  After I finish doing something, I feel it. I am alone now with books and papers and have to be grateful I have enough money to carry on quietly this way if I can get myself to do it.

Very sad this morning as cats cuddled in.  My mind was troubled during the night so the pill didn't give me more than 4-5 hours (what I used to get without it): I couldn't sleep properly. I laid in bed for the 7 hours to try at least to get the rest (as I try to eat 3 times a day and drink and snack when driving).

What shall I do with my life? What is particularly painful about Thanksgiving is it's a prelude to Xmas and Xmas is part of a yearly ritual of remembering the past: not only what happened last year but what has happened over the course of one's life. RLS's ironic saying about continuing to fail in good spirits comes to mind as a hard dictum. Whatever you do avoid face-book where people put up pictures of their ecstatic happy times and "troops of friends" (to quote Macbeth). Of course I remember all three people who were my family circle in these holidays up until my father's death are dead: my father in 1989, my mother August 2012 and my beloved husband October 9, 2013. Three empty chairs, with me still sittting in that fourth.

Trying to invent routs in the next couple of days,   Jesse to Walt: "Do it yourself."  (Maybe I should rewatch Breaking Bad.)  I am with Shakespeare in his sonnet 91:

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.

Let them not try to act like an after loss after the onset of this year (bird's breast banging at walls, windows, all bloodied).

And let me break this taboo: Izzy and I are among probably thousands and thousands of people in the US who have no where to go and no one to be with on Thanksgiving day. About 20 years ago now, maybe a little longer I wished intensely that these family inflicted holidays didn't occur because what I saw frequently was fraught occasions and once a suicide the direct result of berating (which relatives think they have a right to do).

One thing that the presenter at the Haven on the holidays did was reject Elizabeth Kubler-Ross nonsense. She didn't say sharply like me it's the codifcation of cant, but what she uttered was its equivalent.


It was a tremendous stroke of luck the admiral and I finding one another. In Last Orders the man dying says the one that's left has it hardest (that's not true really, death is hardest even if afterward you know no more ever again).

In the 18th century people spoke of love as an attachment. I remain very deeply attached to Jim.

I met a widow of 20 years yesterday on the shuttle bus to Kennedy Center from the Metro, and she told me the hardest year she had was the second. But I could see she was grateful for my company over our lunch; then she was meeting her cousin and last seen the cousin hadn't showed up. I trust she did.

AfriendIsAsItWereA2ndSelf (Small)


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