Surviving--or Pity Post

Is there anything for me in this life—having survived a loved one, a companion of nearly half a century? I'm tired of surviving.

Things have calmed down now. The kids went home in January, they keep in touch by phone, email, text, and Facebook. Other family members and friends do the same. I made it through two months alone. Without anyone living here with me…my neighbors and some friends do stop in often, so I'm not totally alone. As long as they keep bringing me chocolate, I'm good with that.

I've pretty much gotten my life down to a routine. I watch TV all night, listen to classical music all afternoon and evening. Notice I didn't say all day. My day often starts about two in the afternoon. I work at nothing or something or other on my computer. One, because the room where my desktop sits is warmer than anywhere else in the apartment right now. Two, this is where my husband worked, the very same spot, and all his pictures flash on my screen. Three, I think I need to be in here working on something creative, and for a month I was. Rewriting and revising the novel I just finished. Now I sit here contemplating my next move.

I eat in front of my LCD. I open mail here. I peruse catalogs here. I listen to classical music live streaming on my computer. I had a radio—sound system once. Like everything else at this age, it bit the dust a while back and I have not replaced it.

My two lovely cats are totally pissed off at me because I'm either in bed or in front of the computer. In bed they both sleep on me. In front of the computer there is nowhere but my face for them to be, to get my attention. They eat a lot. I don't.

At my doctor's recommendation, I went to meet with a Grief Counselor on Monday. It was more of a meet and greet session. A short session. She was nice, and probably knew her stuff, but it wasn't what I thought it'd be. I'll have to think on that one some more. People of late tend to look at the illnesses and other life trauma's I've survived and tell me I'm a strong person. Independent. I will be fine. I'm a survivor. Did I mention I'm tired of surviving?

Well, I'm not fine. I'm not independent, and I swear that the next professional person who tells me how strong I am, I'll slap them silly.

Now I'm living a life of financial catch-up. Catching up after the car I so desperately wanted to keep decided it needed a few things—immediately. Tires and then brakes. I have some family members and dear friends that are earning extra money with content writing, or making and selling their crafts. That's cool. I figured the content writing would be good for me and bring in the extra money I need. I once did that, only back then they called it advertising and magazine articles. But after checking out the content writing I think I'm a hopeless cause. I't made me feel as if I don't have anything to offer anymore.

I'm bored with the crafty things I do, so that's not even a consideration. I'm a fiction writer, a storyteller. Sometimes dabbling in poetry and prose, but the area of life I'm most comfortable in is storytelling. And I do that. I've started my 15th novel; unfortunately none of them is exactly polished to the point of catching an agent's eye. I just finished revisions for The Wonder of Jane, and sent it out to beta readers. Dust bunnies don't bring in the bucks, either.

Okay, while I wait for Jane's return, I've started the 3rd book in the Campground Murder Series, Dead in the Water at Mallard River Bend. I've got a lot of work ahead of me and a lot of character profiles to create. I'm terribly distracted, however, and don't stay focused on the book, rather preparation of the book, for very long. I've only written the opening scene, the first 4 or 5 pages.

So back to wanting to be a media content writer. I have a friend guiding me, but from what I've read and seen so far, I'm not the right person for the job—and so hoped I would be. But I have to face facts. My children tell me I'm like the writer in Nim's Island. I never leave the house. I travel in my imagination. That can mean one of two things. Exciting or depressing. Oops, I've used that Depressing word. I said I wasn't going to say I'm Depressed. I did that in front of the doctor and he immediately wanted me to take a pill. The grief counselor wanted me to take pills, too. I take enough pills, thank you very much. So My imagination is one of two things: exciting or boring as hell. I guess I'll just have to tough it out. One of these days, I'll catch up.

I'm hoping that spring really does come soon. Last year it barely made it before summer was over. I need warm breezes and sunshine. I need to stand under the tall fir and cedar trees out here and listen to the music they create. The stories they tell.

Now here's what I really want to do. Yes, we know I want to write fiction. But I also want to tell short stories about cats. I want to take the laptop to the park and watch and learn and write. I'm almost scared to death to do that, but I know that if I am truly as strong a person as I've been told, if I truly am a survivor, then I must go out. And often. After all, I didn't pay all that much-needed money to fix the car, just to leave it parked in the driveway.

I also want to get back to painting and illustrating. My hands and arms are somewhat more reliable now, so I think I can trust that my brush and pencil strokes will be just that—reliable. I also have decided that I want to join a book club. I'd rather join a writer's group, one like I belonged to in the last place I lived. But there are none close enough to me. I might even take a painting or sculpting or pot throwing class. Three things I've always wanted to do my entire life and haven't yet. We'll I guess that's it then. I've survived long enough. I need to get busy and live. Be productive and independent and strong.

And to my eternal mate, whose shipmates tell me he is now on eternal patrol—"I love you today."