Sundays

I try to find patterns.  What might be triggering what I'm feeling?

The latest pattern I've realized is that I tend to break down in tears on Sunday evenings.  The past few weeks, it was as I ended my day and went to bed.  The grief enveloped me and crying was so deep that it hurt physically.  Eventually the crying would stop and I would fall asleep.  But what a way to end a weekend or start the workweek.  As I arose on Monday morning, the sadness was heavy and I carried it with me throughout the day.

What was it about this weekly ritual?  I knew I didn't like it so if I figured it out, could I control it?  After giving it some thought, I think I would attribute this to two things.  One, Sundays were always family day.  We would tend to do all our errands and chores on Saturday so that Sundays could truly be a day of rest.  Sure, there would still be some things that had to get done.  But Ed and I typically stayed home on Sundays and they were quieter days.  At this time of year, Ed usually had something on the stove or in the oven for dinner and then would sit in his recliner watching football.  My weekends now are about getting things done.  I still like to have one day on the weekend where I stay home.  The difference now is that I'm usually busy with chores and, of course, my day is spend alone.  Not with my family.

The other thing I realize is that I'm been working hard to take care of our home.  I look back over the past 6 months and all those things I've taken care of.  And I try to be proud of what I've been able to accomplish and say to myself "Look, Look at all you've done".  And so at the end of my weekends, when I've once again worked through a long list of to do's and feel good about what I've accomplished, there is also a part of me that is reminded that this is now my life.  And I become angry that Ed is not here to take care of things or to take care of me.  I don't want to be strong and I don't want others to be proud of how I'm taking care of things.  I want Ed back.  This is not the life I signed on for.

I wanted to grow old with Ed. And the thought of spending my Sundays alone for 10, 20, 30 or more years breaks my heart.  I wanted us to have those quiet Sundays, with dinner on the stove, forever.  I guess the reason Sundays are so difficult is because I do slow down enough to allow grief to catch up with me.  During the week I'm busy with work and whatever might be on my calendar in the evening.  But by Sunday, I've slowed down.

The last few days have been difficult.  On Sunday afternoon, I found myself sitting in the upstairs hallway, crying out for Ed, banging my fists against the wall.  I cried out to him, but he did not come up the stairs to see what was the matter or to comfort me which only made it worse.  When I told someone this, they asked if I stomped my feet too?  I thought that was an odd comment but I take no offense but they don't understand grief.  Did I stomp my feet?  No, and that is because stomping your feet is a childlike response.  Something you do because you don't get your way.  And what I'm feeling is not childlike.  This is grief.  A pain so deep that you don't stomp your feet.  Instead, you slip to the floor and hug your yourself and wish the world would swallow you up.  For there is nothing that can make it better.  And so you cry and yell at no one in particular and you know there is no way to make it better.  That the pain is real and the grief is real and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can be done to make it go away.

Eventually, I find I begin to reason with myself and I laugh at some of the irony of the thoughts I'm having.  And I wipe my tears and get up and get back to the task at hand...whatever it might be when grief interrupted me.

Grief is hanging around a bit more this week.  I'm not sure why.  I wish it would just stick to Sundays...