Rats..... was too mild a term

‘Rat-shit’ was mild.  ‘Hellish’ is definitely a better word.  And less blasphemous.

Have only ever been intoxicated twice in my life.  Both times before I was 22.  The lasting memory of how ill I was on those occasions with the long lasting hangovers were enough to ensure I never got into an inebriated state again, ever, in my life.

Today I feel as though I have the hangover from hell.  Hangover from hell without the pleasure of any lovely pinot or other alcohol passing my lips.  Maybe that was the problem.

Yesterday, the first year anniversary since Tony’s passing away, certainly hit me harder than I could ever have imagined.  The hangover is ten times greater today than the stupor of yesterday.

Consequently, all my plans were to begin heading home today, but I can’t.  I cannot move.  I cannot lift my head from this dreadful hangover.  It hurts too much.

To the nay-sayers that consider I should have stayed at home and wafted the days by with friends and family as accompaniments to the doleful suppers of grief – I know did the right thing by staying away.  As anyone who has been through depression knows, when it is so dark all around, all you want is more darkness, but by yourself.  Any other option will merely make you hate anyone who tries to lift the deep, dark depression.

Am in a safe place, but there is no cell phone coverage – yet Wifi.  Weird, but true.  So long as I sit on a tall bar stool, in this dark and smelly bar I can get internet.  It flickers out lots but so does my brain, so we are almost in sync.

I tried everything yesterday.  

Got up and went for a magnificent run – well, the run wasn’t magnificent but the long, long, glorious beach was and the sea spray was good for the lungs, the heart and the soul.  Felt like I ran for hours, but it wasn’t.  And I don’t run anymore, I flog.  However, flog as I did yesterday morning, I actually enjoyed the flogging, the environment, the smell and taste of the sea and the glorious morning air.

Post the run I did what most people have wanted to tell me to do for a long time.  I went for a hike.  A long hike in a beautiful place.  Everything I did yesterday was making new foot prints in my life. 

I was trying.

But it didn’t work.

The day was hell.  The night more so. 

I am exhausted but cannot sleep. 

Even with taking sleeping tablets, sleep takes forever and is so short.

What made it worse is that for one brief moment last night as I was attempting to drop off, Tony was there, lying right next to me;  enough to have me sit upright and bring awakeness back, big time.  It was merely a momentary half sleep dream I know, but did not help the endless hours of wakefulness that followed.

Today, as I travelled to yet another ‘hike’ I played the Sol3 Meo CD as there is certainly no radio station links here.  They sang The Rose.  That song, those words epitomise how I am at this time.

‘Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed.  Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed.  Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need.  I say love, it is a flower, and you its only seed.’

I am reminded, or at least I keep trying to remind myself, of two of my dear friends who last year gave me words of encouragement and hope.  

To Donna who told me that the pain of grief never stops, it just gets softer.  Year One has passed, time for softening to begin. 

And to Kim, who told me I am allowed to cry as the tears are tears of love.  Yes, I have felt good in this apocalyptic flood of tears these past few days.  Tears of love.  I have been lucky to have been so loved.