bleh

ahhhh, snow days...days full of freedom and silliness and no real plans.  When John was alive...

I try so hard to avoid that phrase...but it is everywhere...and when he was alive, I loved snow days...because he would inspire me to play with everyone in the snow...he would shovel, or we would together.  He was so much better about talking with the neighbors.  And when the kids went to bed, there was at least snuggling if not sex...I miss those both so much.  I hate being alone.  I hate the thought of trying to figure anything out...I hate being a solo mom.  I hate what he left me. 

When he was dying, I tried to talk to him, a few times, about how hard it would be for me.  Understandably, he couldn't hear it.  All he could hear, when I went there, was how he would be gone.  But dammit, I am here...and he is not.  I have to do it all, and he does not.  I want him back, and will never ever have him.  No matter what comes next, it won't be John.

I don't know what to do with this part of my heart, the part that believed he and I would be together forever.  With all our wedding pictures, the photos of him holding our babies.  OUR  babies.  The ones we made together in our passion and love and desire.  I will have that with no one else.  That breaks parts of me into tiny, sharp, shattered pieces.

There is nothing to do with these thoughts but move forward.  That saying, about how it is better to have loved and lost...I don't know.  It just sucks.  And sometimes I want to die.  I don't, really.  What I want is love and connection and hope and something REAL.  I want to want to try.  I want to BELIEVE.  All caps.  I don't, though.  I'm not sure what that really means, that I don't...I know I will fight to be the best mom I can be, I know that dating sites are just not my thing...not right now...I know that I am so lonely that everything inside my heart and soul is sore and raw and ragged...and I know...that I am ALONE.  All caps there, too.  People love and care about me.  But the only one on the couch beside me when the kids go to bed, is my dog.  No one holds my hand.  No one kisses me goodnight with passion and desire, not even quiet passion.  And I feel like wanting that, missing it, is whining.  And really, I don't fucking care.  Because I never thought I'd have it.  And I did.  And cancer took it, the shit headed bastard.  And now, all I have are responsibilities, loneliness, and fear.

Party on.