*** WARNING - if you don't like swearing - please don't read this post ***
I was very angry when I wrote this and didn't edit it at all
Today, I kept getting this feeling that he was going to come home. I still have that feeling, even now.
I've never forgotten that he's dead. Not once. Not even when he appears alive in my dreams ... part of me still knows, on some level, that he is not really alive.
I know that some widow/ers have that split-second moment ... you know, when they think, "oooh I must tell him about ...", before flipping back to the cruel reality after a nanosecond.
Not me though. Never. It is like there is a constant tape recording ... stuck in a loop .... reminding me, "he's dead, he's dead, he's dead," ad infinitum, or should that be ad nauseum?
No, it wasn't that I forgot he was dead today. Nor did I indulge in some kind of pretence or fantasy. I felt him coming home. Maybe he is, it's just that I can't see him.
Which means he's worried about me. One of his oldest friends said to me last night, "he'd be going ballistic if he was here ... you know that, don't you? You need to put some weight on." Shirley looked at the floor, not wanting to look at my face, because if she had ... I'd have broken.
My voice broke, as I struggled not to cry when I admitted I knew he was right. Roy wrapped up the statement with, "yes, you do know ... enough said Boo." And we moved swiftly on to an amusing (to us at least) subject ... all I'll say is we were humming the tune to "Deliverance". And all three of us were laughing raucously.
But today, it feels like he's going to walk through the front door any second. Like before.
I do know he isn't physically. He can't. I mean, a third of his ashes have been sent shooting up into the sky, courtesy of a mo-fo firework of blue stars, taking him along for the ride.
But maybe he's coming ... the other half of my soul.
I hope I haven't worried him. It makes me feel like I've let him down. I would never hurt him or upset him intentionally. Never did. Why would I start now?
But it appears I have. Fuck. Going to let some tears out, pour a single vodka, diet coke and ice .... oh and, yes I CAN HEAR YOU. Eat something balanced and nutritious ... hoorah for Sainsbury's microwaveable meals for one. See, I DID listen to Roy. And I'm heeding the advice.
I know you're going to sit there and watch me eat it, so I can't give half of it to the dogs.
I know how you hated to see me cry. I remember so well how you hated it so ...
But I have to ... I'm sorry baba. I miss you too much. I want to come home. To you. We weren't meant to be apart. I feel like you've been hacked away from me by some psychotic fucked up butcher swinging a cleaver around, and that I'm bleeding everywhere ... all the time.
It's a shame that it wasn't a fucked up butcher because you'd have taken the cleaver off him and thrown it, embedding it deeply in the nearest wall or door (accompanied by me rolling my eyes -and it's not hard to imagine the scenario because I saw you take weapons off people a few times, with that "do you really want to play with me?" expression on your face, always followed by man running away as fast as possible. Any direction. Just away from you. And that body language that screamed NO FEAR. If you stick that in me, I'm going to get even more angry. I'll pull it out and scream like a stuffed pig, then throw it out of your reach. Have some.) I can see you heading for your samurai sword, or perhaps your Hilti staple gun. Or perhaps both. Bad luck Mr Butcher. Run. Karma is coming for you. He's going to really fuck you up now. The weapons are purely for inflicting fear. Unless you physically threaten me. Then all rules are off. Bad luck. Well right now you are in a relatively safe position, because I'm here watching. But I do know that some people only understand violence, so let's help you on your way. I'll use the fucking Hilti gun as he never actually does. The thought is enough of a deterrent for most people. Unless they ARE psychotic ... then, all rules are off. There, your coat won't fall off now. Not till you get those stainless steel things removed anyway.
But it wasn't a butcher. It was something else. Something that even he couldn't fight. A first in his adult life. Even he couldn't make it go away and never return to darken my la-la-land door again. Make me safe. This was unexpected ... it happened on your home territory and the fucker was cowardly. He snuck up behind you, like a little man with a knife or a sawn-off. I'd have died fighting for you.
But we couldn't fight what we couldn't see.
I tried so fucking hard that day. I tried. I willed the damage the stroke inflicted on you. I willed it. I tried and tried to absorb the damage. Take it out of your head and into my arms. I told you I was going to try. I could feel my hands and the skin on the underside of my arms get so so so hot .... so so hot, that I thought it was going to work. But it didn't work. And when I gained lucidity, I quietly sat down and you gave my hand a double-squeeze. I miss that too. That you understood me like that. Let me try, even knowing I would fail, but knowing I had to try.
It hurts in my body, my heart, my soul and in my frazzled tired mind. I just want a taste of you - I'm not even asking for a minute. I'd start again .... right back at day one of this fucking awful pain and re-live it again and again and again .... just for a taste of you. I'd exchange the rest of my life ... just for a taste of you. You know how patience is not only not one of my strong points, it simply doesn't exist in my vocabulary.
I need to sit quietly. Turn off the banging club music. Be still. And then I'll feel you when you come back to check on me.
It's still a taste. I'll take a taste, no matter how fleeting, how ethereal, how unseen. It's still a sense. It's the other one. The odd one out. The one that people get uncomfortable about if it's mentioned. Unless they live in a caravan of course. And stand on street corners, holding a sprig of lavender in their hand, all mangled and wilting, shoving it in your face in exchange for a couple of quid. Or is it heather? "Lucky heather, darlin?" What the fuck am I talking about?
I'm so relieved I have that in me. As you did. We are only physically separated. Our souls are still safely entwined, just as the palm trees are, in that beautiful place where we exchanged our vows. Maybe it's not "till death do us part" for us. Not us. An unbreakable bond. A tenuous yet very real link. Souls touching.
Love is stronger than death.
I fucking hate you, death. When you come for me I'm going to take you with me.
Fucking coward. You'd have never come towards him, unarmed. I only saw one person do that ever. And he stopped because I was there. Neither of them could stand me crying. Seriously. See, men have rules and codes. Well, the men I know and count as real friends do.
You don't. You have jack-shit. Only misery. You're a fucking coward and an arsehole and I'm going to have you. I am his wife. Just think about that. I might act like a baby, but when I go cold ... I don't care. You don't scare me you little shit. You stupid little drunk Glaswegian pathetic excuse of a man, you actually think you're big. You are not. You're fuck all in reality. All you are is delusional. Go on, have another cheap scotch and a rolled up cigarette. Come towards me speaking shit and when you get close, I recoil from your foul breath and am repulsed by the spit that lands on me because you're such a socially inept being ... you can't even speak properly. Come closer, I can't understand what you're saying. But what you're too fucking stupid to see is that I'm not listening to you. I'm not here to fucking talk. Your level of intellect just doesn't do it for me you stupid little man. I'm just waiting for you to get close enough ...
... then I'm taking you down. I'm taking you with me. And I'm like my husband, I can wait a long long long long time. Can you, you little prick? With a two inch dick. Fuck you. You strut about thinking you look hard. But you don't understand, you thick piece of shit .... that I have no fear now that he's gone. No fear. My biggest fear has happened. I've lost my fear of flying. You mistake me for someone who gives a fuck. Or you look at me smiling and misinterpret it as submission. Hell, I'll even lead you into the bedroom and take you down with me, you fucking stupid freak ... you just cut down lives at random. No rhyme, no reason. Because you have no morals ... you don't notice anybody else's. Babies, dogs, children - what sort of sick fuck are you? Hello? You suck the life out of good loving and loved people. And leave sub-human pond-life walking around ... the type of people who hurt kids or animals, just because they can. A little like you. Like goes to like. Maybe that's why you spare the pond-life in this DNA pool.
Fuck I'm angry.
But that feels a lot lot better .... now to eat and be still, so I can feel him ... if I'm angry I never ever feel him.
Karma. If it doesn't come along quickly enough for Ms Patience 2011, I'll make it happen.