Or one million two hundred thousand two hundred fifty eight minutes and seven seconds since she left.
Every so often I reach the end of the line.
"Oh no, here we go again." is what you are thinking.
"No no no no no! It's not what you are thinking."
"Does he actually know what I am thinking?" you may be thinking.
"What does he think I am thinking?" you may be thinking.
Well, I think what you are thinking is, "Here we go again with the suicide stuff."
To which I answer, "Nope, I am pretty much beyond that. My kids have seen to that or at least the fact that they exist and there is no fucking way I would do that to them because it turns out they really do love me and I matter to them."
Of course this actually may or may not be true. Obviously I must think it is otherwise I wouldn't have written slash said it. The fact is that I feel this way. I FEEL like they love me and I matter to them. This is what they seem to project when I am with them. This is actually big stuff here because I didn't always feel this way. In fact, it isn't until recently, like maybe one and a half years ago, that I began to feel this way.
"Uh. . . . .Oookaaay." you may be thinking, "I wasn't really thinking that at all but thanks for clearing it up anyway. Could you please go on about the "end of the line" business before I go to the next blog because this is getting kind of frustrating. I mean with you trying to second guess what I am thinking."
The way I'm dealing. . .
with this feeling. .
Can't go on like this.
too long
Okay, I'm done. I will now talk about the end of the line. The end of the line is everything I do to make myself feel better - everything I do to "self sooth." Ask yourself what you do to self sooth, to make yourself feel better. For me it can be a number of things which are but not limited to (in the order they are killing me): hiking, listening to music, sleeping, working, writing, eating, eating sugar or chocolate, obsessing about some political thing, ranting about the state of public discourse over politics, drinking, obsessing over a woman, and sex.
Today, I reached the point where none of these things work. They do not sooth me in any way. They do not alter my mood. They have no effect on the psychic pain I am feeling. And so what I am left with is nothing but feelings.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me! Feelings! It that what this is about? You mean to tell me, I read all the way up to this point and you are going to talk about your stupid fucking feelings" your probably thi . . . . . Never mind.
Yes, I go to great lengths to avoid noticing them. But today they became unnoticeable. So I sit in the rocking chair listen to music - newagey kind of stuff - cry, and talk to Wendy. I wonder how fucked up it would look if someone were to observe this. But then I think about how fucked up it would look if someone were to observe my thoughts, behaviors, and ultimately actions when I avoid doing dealing with the feelings.
What it comes down to is that I am in this house alone. Alone. No Wendy. She was here. Now she's not. Did it really happen. I've written about this before. Never-the-less, I'll write about it again.
I got the pictures on the refrigerator. I got the digital pictures on my phone, my computer at home, my computer at work, on a myriad of hard drives. I got videos. I got videos of her moving and talking. Yes she really did exist. It really did happen. I am living in her house.
The scenario in which I am living is so fucking random. I couldn't have dreamed it up in a million years. Yet, I imagine it happens quite a bit. There is a story line on the television show, "House" where Wilson ends up with this woman, moves in with her, she dies in an automobile accident, and he is left sitting there in her apartment and at one point in one of the episodes he describes the situation. I was sitting here where I am writing this, watching that episode on my computer in disbelief as he word for word, except for the apartment part, describes the situation I am in. This happened about five months after Wendy died or should I say passed. No, she died is what she did.
And at one o'clock on Sunday afternoon on the eighteenth of March, one million, two hundred thousand, three hundred minutes had elapsed since Wendy's passing. . . .
