The More You’ve Lost
This afternoon, when I asked my therapist, Ann Carol, how long I would have to endure this pain and emptiness and rage, she said, "The more you've lost, the harder it is and the longer it takes to work through it." I wanted to hit her, drop onto the floor and have a screaming tantrum and throw things and scream at the top of my lungs. She knows what I have lost, and the look on her face was one of anguish for me. She lost her husband many years ago, and I could see the residue of that loss on her face. Shit. Is there ANY hope for me? Why can't I just start doing things and going places and asking people to come over for drinks? I simply cannot make myself seek out the company of anyone except Kristy and Nancy and Gretchen, if she were close by. The longer Clint is gone, the harder living without him becomes. I sometimes kiss the top of his urn and then tell him to go to hell and ask him why he had to leave me, keep drinking when he knew it would kill him. The selfish sonofabitch loved wine more than he loved me or anyone else. How does that happen? When I left Ann Carol's, I went to Stein Mart to buy some panties big enough to stretch over my wide ass, and I saw Diane Carson there. She's a lab tech at the hospital, and she worked with and loved Clint for years. She told me how, twice, when she had kidney stones and her insurance would not cover the whole expense and she couldn't pay the difference, Clint told her not to worry about it, that he wouldn't bill her for more than insurance would pay. How can a man that fine and generous and loving and caring KILL HIMSELF with alcohol? Somebody please explain that to me. I feel so cheated and at the same time, I love him so much it makes me ache all over. I don't think I'll ever figure out how to live without him. I will never be the same, never. How many times have I said that to myself?