Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Streaking

I feel like I am turning into a character from a Stephen King novel.

It is cold and wet outside; the sky covered in clouds.
I am burying myself in blankets and socks. Also, a warm cat or two to snuggle with.

So much writing. I need a new ribbon for my typewriter. [Smith-Corona Corsair Deluxe portable]
Actually, my online writing is done on the computer, the typewriter is just my old, old friend; I think I got mine back in 1990? Thereabouts.

However, the overall mood, the same themes as are in the books I've read until they became cannon, it feels a bit odd to suddenly be living it.

I don't really want to see anyone right now, no company. No distractions.
My downstairs is finally closer to being cleaned and organized in a way my Asperger brain enjoys and can function in. Part of my brain is already doing the same to my upstairs level, but the actual work there is harder; the bedroom is still the last room where there are things left that he moved and touched and put into place.
It is harder to be 'ready' to change that. Ready, ha. As if such a thing could happen in a human life. Rationality can only go so far, even I could only prepare for some of what was to come.

Cleaning the bedroom changes it. Changes it TO a bedroom. It started that way, when we first moved here in 2008. Once he got sick though, it changed. We slept there, yes, but being bed-bound changes so much. The mood of the room was not the same. The items in it. The sounds. The colours. The photos and objects on the walls, even.
It was a place of sickness, even by accident. By proxy.
Now to me, it still holds the strongest memories, and the majority of my reluctance to change it.

Words and thoughts, even lucid dreams rob me of any real 'rest'. My thoughts have become a perpetual motion machine, spinning ever forward and back. Flipping between some social order of "normal" to be outside of my house and in social situations, to hysterical uncontrolled laughter at something that I find funny or he did. I hear his voice less in my head, but a stronger compulsion to 'talk' to his TARDIS urn.
I miss his body, but in strange ways. I just miss how he felt pressed against me. I miss having my head and my ear line up with his heart when we were physically close. I miss kissing the part of his neck where it met his hairline. I miss how his ears were always cold, even in the Arizona summer.

Mostly it comes at night, when I am alone in the bedroom-that-is-not-a-bedroom, sleeping in a bed that feels half empty.
It is different because there was no choice involved. He did not choose cancer. He did not choose to die young. He did not choose to have a tumor remove his memories and change his being.
He only chose how to live.

Busy days help me. Busy days though, cannot keep out the thoughts. The questions.


The world is so open to me, but the person I want to share everything of myself with is gone.

Is it still a desire if there is complete certainty it will never happen?

2 comments:

  1. Replies
    1. Tashi, I stumbled upon your blog through Regretsy, ironically, when I was looking for a laugh. Your & Wash's life journey both moves and humbles me in ways I cannot articulate.

      It is painfully beautiful how he went beyond himself to live the best life he could with you and how you in turn, fought for Wash's physical, social & emotional well being. Most people who are much older, more economically and socially established could never have handled what the two of you did together.

      Your writings paint such a vivid picture of your daily lives, so much so, that I feel honored by your generosity of spirit. It can't have been easy for you to share some of the painful moments, but by doing so, you made the happy pieces of your lives so much more lovely.

      I suppose that is my point in writing to you. You and Wash managed to live the best lives, to the fullest, that you possibly could, considering the short amount of time given.

      One reason I felt compelled to write was, all you did for Wash, as a friend, a wife, a care giver, I also saw that if the situation had been reversed, he would have done the same for you as well. That is rare and beautiful; like you and Wash.

      Let yourself mourn in your own time. Grow your garden. Play with your cats. Live.

      You have a beautiful soul and I wish many wonderful things for you in life!

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