1001 Nights

"To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die." .... Harold Robbins

the real grieving begins later - when everyone has gone back to their own lives and you're all alone 

Alone.  Completely alone.

August 21, 2006 was 3 years.  But actually, it's really about 4 years.  June 28, 2002 was the day Rebecca received positive results for lung cancer - that was the day the earth started to change for both of us.

Nobody knows - everyone knows.  Everyone has lost someone close to them; a mother, grandparents.  Thousands, millions of people have lost children, brothers, sisters - accidents, car wrecks, drugs, incurable sicknesses, aging, war.  I'm not the first to lose the one person I consider to be everything in the world - I'm sure I won't be the last. 

Maybe part of the meaning of this page is that Rebecca was everything in the world to me.  My world revolved around Rebecca.

Many people know and understand loss and grief - they've lived through it.  They understand depression, anxiety, panic, fear, and uncertainty - they've lived through it. 

For me, I'm surviving through something different than I could ever imagine.  It's something you probably won't ever understand.  But maybe you will someday. 

Everyone I've spoken with - psychologists, pastor, a few old friends who knew Rebecca - has had a support system: family, friends, relatives, close neighbors.  I'm not that lucky - I have no one. 

For reasons unknown, Rebecca and I were never very close to anyone.  Almost everyone we ever met could be considered acquaintances, rather than true friends.   

Rebecca and I were alone together.  She was all I ever wanted or needed, and all I ever had.  No parents, no family, no relatives, no children.  Nobody ever loved me, cared for me, stood by my side through anything - only Rebecca.  She proved 34 years of loyalty and trust, since I was 19 years old.

"Friends" show you pretty quickly what friendship they really have when you're grieving and depressed.  They can't stay far enough away.  They can't return your calls, and they have no tolerance for crying.  You were a lot of fun when you were buying the beer, laughing, and joking with them regularly. 

Everybody loves a winner - but when you lose, you lose alone. 

They can't use you for their own amusement after you're traumatized.  Suddenly, you're no fun anymore.  They disappear like smoke.  I can understand the psychological basis for this: these "friends" can't actually do anything to take the depression away, so they avoid the situation entirely.  The result is the same, though.  They feel better watching TV than listening to your grief.

Being alone kills you, and it does it slowly.  Losing the few people you really believed were your friends adds to it, too.  Some people are strong - they get out and do something about it.  Others are afraid, insecure, anxious - they stay home, in the only safe place they know.  They just give up.  And they slowly deteriorate.  Eating habits, interests, personal hygiene, motivation to do anything except sleep - these things disappear.  Some people just can't adjust to living alone - living without a loyal partner to stand by them, someone who positively loves them and cares. 

Someday, this might happen to you.  You might have a support system, but nobody can predict with any accuracy what will happen to you emotionally or mentally.  Nobody knows how deeply you'll be affected, or for how long.  Who knows when or if you'll get past it, and try to go on with what's left of your life?   

I've waited a long time to write this page.  It's pretty humiliating, but it's truth.  Since losing Rebecca, I've become more and more agoraphobic, unable to go places without anxiety and panic attacks.  The stress of everyday life is really too much to handle alone.  Various medications have done nothing to change this, so I leave them alone.  Drinking is not a solution, so I drink a few beers every now and then.  Or I drink beer every night - it serves as a distraction.  It's not a solution, and I've always known that.  I'm humiliated to even admit that I turn to beer to wash away some of the depression. 

I've learned it really comes down to just one thing.