Last night, while going through the grueling process of self-pity, I spent some time pondering life’s precarious predicaments. After all, I am perpetually lost within the darkness of one of those precarious predicaments. My husband is gone. Regardless of how much I scream, beg, and cry, he will still be gone. I know that his soul continues to exist, but I will not see him again while on this earth. He visited me a few times, but he does not visit anymore. This is what I thought, in between sobs and the question of why, why, why.
I am slowly fathoming the reason why he refuses to see me. My spirituality demands that I believe everything happens for a reason. Logically, I know this; however, emotions usually trump logic. His death was not just a random occurrence. He died because my karma demands some retribution. I do not remember why I chose this lonely existence, but I assume that my soul owes a massive debt to my eternal growth. He refuses to see me for two reasons. One—it is the hell I must endure to advance spiritually and two—he has his own soul growth with which to tend.
One may think that accepting answers would lead to peace. I wish that were the case. I remain in a perpetual state of uproar. Tranquility looms just out of reach. I have two choices—I can simply accept my castigation and resign myself to living as a fraud or I can reinvent myself and be content with the knowledge that I am mortal and mortality has its limits. What a mystical quandary I face.
I reluctantly abandon my dreams—my dream of growing old with the man I love with all my heart, my dream of becoming a writer, my dream of happiness, and my dream of helping others. I buried the largest part of my dreams the day I buried him, but vestiges drift in the aura surrounding me. Those vestiges are slowly drifting away. I surrender to the dreamless existence, which offers only emptiness. I had such a big heart. Sometimes, I wondered whether I am an empath. I feel as though my heart is shrinking. I still feel, I still absorb the sadness of others around me, but I no longer feel that I am capable of helping them.
Doyle and I had plans for retirement. Once I began teaching, he could retire. I was planning to buy a metal detector for him so that he would have a hobby. He had big plans for working in the shop we built. I had big plans of coming home to his arms after long days. We never had that opportunity. His life ended much too soon. My life ended about two weeks prior to his. I try to pretend that we are holding each other, sometimes even falling asleep that way, but I always wake with tears on my pillow.
My dream of becoming a writer, while still looming around me, has died for the most part. So few people actually read what I write. A friend said it is because my writing is so depressing, but I do not believe that. My writing is just not as good as I thought. He was my biggest fan and his encouragement drove me. I read everything I wrote to him, regardless of how long. He would praise me and sometimes, even make suggestions. I am not a narcissist, but I admit that his devotion encouraged me to continue writing. Now, I suppose I write because I began writing as a little girl and believed it was my destiny. I do not believe that anymore. I am beginning to believe that my destiny was to have 20 years of bliss with the man I love, and then be plunged into darkness for atrocities I committed in previous lives. To endure this hell for the remainder of this life is my destiny.
I once thrived in helping others. I could often find the right thing to say or know just when to listen. Now, how can I help others when I cannot even help myself. All I am capable of now is absorbing their pain, but with no resolutions to absolving it. I have become useless. There it is—I have no purpose anymore. I merely exist.
Relief can only come in the form of death, but I signed a contract. How funny that I am bound by contractual obligations to endure my sentence. I imagine a heavy scroll stuck in an array of endless shelves, just gathering dust. Ironically, the written word that I love so much is the very harness that confines me to hell. To take my own life would be equivalent to breaking a contract with God. I cannot do that because then, I would be condemned to endure another life or I might not get to see him. I cannot take that chance.
The time is nearing that I make my choice—accept my fate and learn to embrace this fraudulent existence or simply evolve into another person and wait for it all to end. My mystical quandary is complex. For now, I can only accept my fate and continue living as a fraud, feigning laughter at the right moments and pretending as though I enjoy living alone knowing that I will never again know love or even making love. However, at the back of my mind is the thought that the two options can merge—along with empty existence, I must find contentedness with the knowledge that mortality has its limits. I wait.
©2012 Relinda R.