Tag Archive | anger

A Heart’s Drip

what a luxury it was for people to be able to hold their loved ones whenever they wanted.” ~Cecelia Ahern


I am almost certain that I recently broke. I laughed. I did not just emit properly timed laughter; I really laughed, almost hysterically. At some point during mid-laughter, I sobbed. Just like that. My laughter transformed into pitiful wails instantly. I could not stop. I sobbed that way for almost a solid hour, just gasping for air in between gut-wrenching sobs. Oddly enough, I do not remember what was so damn funny in the first place; it was something I saw on the television. It was during the next moments that I woke.

Really. I did. I just felt different, not better or worse, just different. I guess I finished another stage. Following my break, tears just continued to flow down my face. I know because the tears tickled my face and I would have to wipe them away. Sometimes, a tear would quickly make its way down my cheek and fall onto my book. Just like that—drip . . . drip . . . drip. It must be comparable to existing as a leaky faucet. I remember wondering if there was a way to turn the faucet off. (Note to self—there is not an arrow on one’s heart directing which way one should turn for off).

I spent the next day in silence. Total silence. I did not turn on the radio or television. The only sound I heard was the sound of the wind whenever I walked my dog and the occasional drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . of the faucet from my heart.

“When Grandma read me:
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall . . .

                            I never

(Lee Bennett Hopkins)

 And there is not one fuckin’ king’s man or horse who can put Humpty Dumpty back together or one fuckin’ plumber who can fix a heart’s drip. Not one.

©Relinda R. 2013


Plagued by the Nines

Here I am—a self-professed writer, an enigma of defiance, a lost soul facing another nine, unable to produce a single thought without drifting backward through time to the last time I saw his face or kissed his fading lips. My defiance lurks in the shadows as I attempt to produce words to enunciate my journey of overcoming mediocrity.

Today my journey includes producing a psychological analysis of a prolific author long gone and a glorified comic presenting undertones of Marxism. Seemingly simple tasks for an English major, but not for a soul enduring time’s stagnation during another nine. Trying to explain how a fake Superman presents a domineering patriarchal society as the bourgeoisie proves to be my own kryptonite, at least on this nineteenth day of October. My battle that always begins on the fourteenth of any given month escalates five days later and explodes as I fall three days after until I reach rock bottom of my downward spiral. He has been gone for an excruciatingly long forty-six months today and time does little to lessen the gap his absence leaves.

Here I am—a self-professed writer unable to write, an enigma of defiance lost in mediocrity, a lost soul succumbing to another nine. I am truly an icon of insignificance. I am the embodiment of solitude.

© Relinda R.

Spilled Milk

The last 30 months of my life have consisted of hanging on by a thread. They have been the darkest days of my life. Perhaps, the most disheartening adjustment of all is wearing a mask in order to appease others. One heartbreak after another fills my days, one tragedy after another just continues. I think one of the most sobering moments occurred when I realized that I could drink milk out of the carton if I wish. I was pouring myself a glass of milk when it hit me. I spilled milk everywhere when I fell to my knees. That realization hit me like a brick. I…am…alone. I do not want to drink milk from the carton or eat food from the container. I want to set out two dishes and two glasses for milk. However, I never will. I will never again experience the simple of joy of pouring a glass of milk for someone else. What is it the kids today say? Fml—fuck my life. Yes, I believe that is it.

     People permit you a short time to grieve, believing that you will recover and become yourself in a couple of months. They do not understand two things about losing the love of your life. First—you remain numb for a long time, possibly up to a year. You are breathing, eating and sleeping, but you are numb. The finality of the situation does not sink in immediately at burial. After the first year, it slowly begins to sink in that the person you love is not coming back and then the depression becomes a part of your soul. After the second year, you realize that you will be alone for the rest of your miserable life. It is then that the widow or widower reaches out for understanding and receives none. “It has been so long, you should be over it by now. We gave you time to grieve. Now you must let it go.” Yes, I have actually heard those words.


     As I approach the 30-month mark of death (I died on that day too), I have reached a point in which I just wear a mask for the public. They do not want to hear about the way the little squirrel I braked for reminds me of the time Doyle yelled at me for slamming on my brakes without looking in my rearview mirror. They also do not want to hear about how this song or that song reminds me of something Doyle did. What they want to hear is praise for their endeavors and encouragement for their problems. Fml. It is what it is.

     The fourteenth marked 30 months since I heard my husband say, “I love you.” I had to fasten my mask so tightly that morning to ensure that I did not mention what the day meant to me. I held the tears in until I was alone. It is remarkable how many tears one can shed at one time. If I could save them all, I would have a lake home. I did not think I could cry any more than I did on New Year’s Eve. I was wrong. I can cry that much and even more. I no longer drink milk.

     I am so sick of people whispering that I am suicidal because I miss my husband. I pray that those people never experience what I have and learn the truth. Yes, I have my family—I am fortunate to have my parents and I have my children. I love them all. It is a different type of love. I wish people could understand that. Doyle and I were married for nearly 20 years. We were inseparable. We made love; we did everything together. I do not know how else to explain the difference to people. Kisses, hugs and sex will never be in my life again. Apparently, that bluntness is required to explain the difference of losing a husband and losing a grandparent. I am sick of people whispering behind my back “it’s been over two years, but she doesn’t handle it very well.” Really? I work 10 hours a day, I am a full-time student who graduated summa cum laude for my AA degree and have made one ‘B’ while earning my BS degree. I take care of my home and my yard. I do everything I am required to do and more. What the hell do people want from me? Do they want me to say, “Oh, Doyle’s dead and buried so I think I will just forget about the last 20 years and pretend it never happened.” They hope for that in vain because I will never pretend that my love meant nothing. Fuck it—I’m putting my mask back around my heart to make everyone else feel happy.

©2012 Relinda R.

Damn Cake

     Well, dammit! I was so proud of myself for making it two whole days without having a meltdown. Then, out of nowhere, I had a major meltdown. Saturday, my best friend brought her mower over and mowed my yard while I did some weed eating and worked on shoveling dirt out of my weed-infested flowerbed. I thought it was great that I was able to do outside work without crying. You see, Doyle kept an immaculate lawn and our 80-feet retaining wall was covered with beautiful flowers and roses of all kinds. It died when he died. I have struggled to keep the lawn mowed and tend to outside chores since his death. There I was, sweating pools, but not crying pools.

     We had our annual cemetery decoration day Sunday. I was the main speaker last year and it was tough. This year, I just shared a few memories and read a poem that I wrote. I did not cry. (I seldom cry in front of people, but I usually have a meltdown afterward when I am alone). However, I stayed strong yesterday.

     I was off work today for the holiday. I did a lot of house cleaning and washed my linen. I was on my feet all day. I also washed my daughter’s car to get it ready for selling. It was her first car. Doyle found it when she was 15-years-old and we bought it for her. I was recalling the way he came home from work to tell me about it and how I was a little perturbed because I was working outside and he wanted to go look at it right that moment. We went. We bought it the next day. I remembered all that, but I did not cry. In fact, I smiled because he never let me live down the fact that he was right to convince me to go look at it.

     I made it through two days filled with memories and I decided to bake a cake this evening. I was frosting the cake when I had a meltdown. While spreading the chocolate frosting, I thought about the way Doyle did not care much for sweets. He preferred frosting-free cake. Whenever I made a cake, I always left part of it unfrosted for him. I also did that with cupcakes. I love chocolate so I would eat frosted cupcakes while he ate plain cupcakes. Oh my God, how I miss that! That is what got the tears rolling, a damn cake.  I frosted the entire cake and imagined how great it would have been if he had been sitting in his spot at the dining room table just waiting for his unfrosted cake.

     I would not wish this kind of pain on anyone. I miss the man I love so much. People think it gets better with time. That is bullshit; it gets even more difficult because it has been that much longer since you have seen the person you love. Every time I make a wish, I wish that I had my husband back. It does not matter whether it is my prayers or a shooting star, that is what I wish. I have not had a birthday cake since I was a little girl, but if I did and it had candles—I would wish to see my Doyle.


©2012 Relinda R.

Roller Coaster

     Today is the 28-month mark of the last time I heard his voice. He said, “I love you.” It was the last thing he ever said. He died five days later. Since that time, I have experienced every emotion imaginable. I am devastated. I am sad. I am lonely. I am angry. Sometimes, I try to figure out how I can stop this roller coaster of emotions and just walk on the ground. Grief has taught me that people do not understand grief until they have experienced it.

     I spent nearly 20 years with this man. We laughed. We cried. We loved. Our passion was as vibrant at the end as it was in the beginning. I thought he hung the moon; I still think that. He thought I was made of the light that makes stars. We were truly in love. We believed in love. He encouraged me to reach for the stars.Image

     I will never forget the day we learned a terrible demon called “cancer” was nesting inside of his chest. That same chest I lovingly caressed as we drifted into slumber. He was gone just 18 days later. I was so angry. I am still angry. It was so fast. I experienced a whirlwind of emotions as reality screamed at me. In the beginning, I asked everyone to pray that the miracle of medicine would kill the demon. I prayed. I prayed so hard, but obviously not hard enough. Near the end, when his body refused any nourishment, I asked everyone to pray that he would not suffer. That was the turning point for me. He made me look into his eyes, assure him that I would be okay and that I would finish college, and teach. That is the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. I had to keep tears inside and say those things, knowing that he was leaving me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit something. I wanted to curse God.

     A few things sustained me during those first few days after, our children, my friends and my family. I do not even remember coming home that night. My best friend was with us at the hospital. She brought me home, but I do not really remember climbing into bed that night. What I remember is my hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of it as he strained for each breath the oxygen mask provided. I remember the noise of that oxygen. I remember how strong his heart beat. It was so loud and fast. I remember that his breaths became farther apart, his chest would rise and fall, for what seemed like hours, then it would rise again. Finally, it did not rise. His heart began to beat slower with eternities passing between each thump. Two minutes later, his heart stopped. There was no magic twinkling of bells, no angel heralding his arrival home, just silence.

     That night was the beginning of a silence that persists to this day. I miss him so much. I stare at photos and twirl the wedding band on my finger. I tried to take it off once, but I could not do it. The ring has been a part of my body for two decades. It cried when I tried to remove it. Maybe that was me crying, I am not sure anymore. Regardless, it remains on my finger. He told me he loved me in a circle. When I asked him to explain that, he said, “A circle is endless. It is forever.” My ring is a circle that symbolizes the love we shared.

     I do not know how I will survive the next decade or even tonight but I know that I will never stop missing him. I will never stop loving him. People tell me that I need to get over it, I need to move on, I need mental help—I have heard it all. How do I tell them that what I need is my love? He completed me. We were one. I am half a person now. At this moment—I am stuck on ANGRY. I am on a roller coaster just spinning its gears begging for a message from beyond. Next week—I will have coasted down one hill and climbed another, only to begin another descent into loneliness—or hell. The roller coaster never stops. I miss the ground beneath my feet.