Two More Years
After the frightening episode a couple of weeks ago when I wondered if going on without Hal was even worth doing, I called my therapist and made an appointment. I’d last seen him four years ago, after I quit my job to write full time and was struggling with a lot of anxiety as well as a feeling that I was doing nothing with my life. Although I got a lot of good advice from him, I eventually opted for a shortcut and asked my doctor for antidepressants to deal with my anxiety.
I never got over the feeling that I’d cheated my therapist by going on medication. He’d worked hard, I thought, trying to help me. And here I am, four years later, no longer dealing with anxiety but with my other problems unresolved. I still have nothing to show for my writing efforts, and now I don’t even have the support and encouragement of a spouse. I sit alone at my desk writing, sometimes dreaming of having some success, but ultimately realizing that my work just isn’t good enough. Or maybe I’m just not willing to what it takes to finish the work and get it published. I feel like a failure.
At my appointment last week, my therapist gave me some very bad news. It takes three years to get over the death of a spouse. Like most people in my position, he says, I’m trying to feel better too quickly, which is just making me feel worse. I cried the rest of the day. Two more years of this? How on Earth am I going to survive another two years?
My mood this week is made worse by the fact that my desktop died last weekend, and my efforts to make my laptop serve as my main computer haven’t been successful. I spent 7 hours on the phone with tech support this week, and as pathetic as it sounds, I was glad to have someone to talk to. I’ve also had painters in, and have been frustrated with delays, poor workmanship and having my house torn up.
Having the painters moving my things around have shown me how much junk I have in this house–Hal’s things that I no longer need or want, my own things that I need to thin out and stuff I collected for art projects that I never got around to doing. I desperately need to have a yard sale or something. I sometimes think that I should just sell it all and hit the road. Maybe I should just travel around a while, for as long as the money and my health will let me, and look for a place where I can settle down and start over.
I don’t think I can stand two more years here.
August 18, 2008 at 9:41 pm
Grief is an individual process. From my own experience, I got the best benefit talking to my second therapist, who was a woman. (First one was a guy) I personally didn’t get much from the first one, a nice enough fellow, but no empathy. There are always good days and bad days and eventually we all adjust to life as it is now. At two years I had lots of good days, and then there’s the not so good, but I always found physical activity a big help. Walking, hiking, just getting out and doing something instead of brooding. I’m great a brooding. Forget about the time timeline/timetables. No one can predict how long anyone takes. No one. Not a therapist, not a psychologist, not family and friends. We’re all different. By the way, I’ve been a writer many years, and yet for almost 3 years I couldn’t write ANYTHING. NOTHING. I had no interest, no inspiration. I was scared, wondering if at 47 years of age, if this was all there was. Would I ever get interested in anything again? The answer is yes. Please think about talking to a woman therapist. It might be the difference between night and day. And stop beating yourself up. Be kind to yourself, some days all we can do is just get through them. I wish you the best. Elaine Williams