HOW I AM

Question: “How are you?”

Answer A, the most common one: “Oh, you know.”

Answer B: “Shitty.”

Answer C: I pretend I didn’t hear the question. I really do that. Because I don’t want to have The Conversation, and even if people are only asking out of habit, I’m not interested in lying. There are times that I let, “Fine.” fall out of my mouth when someone asks how I’m doing, and I regret it. It’s not true. I'm functioning fine. I get the necessary stuff done. But I'm not fine.

Another workable answer might be, “I have no idea.” Am I going to cry in a minute? Am I going to get frustrated and throw something? Am I going to go back to bed? I don’t make plans because I don’t know if I can pull them off. I’m this lethargic, fragile thing on the verge of despondence or crying or screaming or slumping or I have no freaking idea.

I don’t want to write anything because I don’t want to propagate my depression. I’ve done a decent job highlighting what’s good, what there is to be grateful for, but I don’t feel a ton of that lately. I’m not bitter. I’m sure that will come soon. I am just so sad.

Gosh, but at the same time I’m not stupid. Or stupid enough to ignore the good of what’s right in front of me. I was sitting on the couch crying a couple hours ago, and there was a knock at my door, one of those incredibly well-timed knocks. It wasn’t just the cookies in hand that made me grateful—hell, delicious though they are, they’re so secondary to the kindness of a friend showing up at just the right time—it was the relief of being able to cry at a real person at that moment.

I get well-timed texts and emails from my people, known and unknown until now, telling me they’re thinking of me. It seems arrogant or assumptive, but I suspect that is happening a lot and I don’t know it—people thinking of and praying for me. Maybe I feel it? Or maybe I’ve just become so insufferably self-centered that I’ve deluded myself into thinking that my tragedy affected and continues to affect everyone else’s lives.

It means I’m touched though when people tell me how Jim’s death impacts them. It validates the pit of pain I’m still stuck in with no rise in sight, and also, I think it’s correct. Correct that people are changed. He was such a big personality. He had notable positive impact on really anyone who met him. I would be irked if his death was just something people felt sad about for a minute. It’s bigger than that and not just for me.

I am scared of forgetting. I am so scared I will forget what he felt like. Fretfully and with true trembling, I’m really damn scared. Over and over I listen to the couple recordings I have of his voice because I’m scared I’ll forget what he sounded like. Even with those recordings though I can’t find in my mind the exact sound of his voice when he answered my calls, “Hey baby!” I am scared of forgetting his habits. I sometimes have flashes of memory of something he did so often I can’t believe it wasn’t top of mind before. How can I forget his patterns? Time is going to pass and I am going to forget. I make notes. I try to capture what I can. I am so scared of forgetting all the things I loved about him.

On the wall just as you come in from the garage there is an 11x14 of my favorite of our wedding photos. The glass has fingerprints on Jim's half. My fingerprints. I touch that one as I walk by. I stop, run my fingers along his face, and sometimes I talk to him. Usually I just tell him, “I miss you so much.” Simple, accurate, inadequate.

I don’t like how I look in photos really ever. I’m not photogenic, and I’ve come to terms with it. I’d rather appear better in person than in photos anyhow. Point is, even though I don’t like what I look like in photos, when we decorated I hung quite a few pictures of us together throughout the house, because when I look at them I don’t see me. I see him. I look at the photos, I adore him, and then I’m like, “Oh my gosh, I’m in that picture too. Weird.” But euphoria, I think, makes people prettier. Being so deliriously in love has to have made me look better or—and this might make more sense to me—I know how happy I am in those photos and that makes me care less about what I look like when I notice that I’m in the picture too.

Seems when I’m in a crying phase—read: right this second—I put on makeup just to cry it off. I often don’t wipe the mascara stains from my cheeks. I don’t see many people these days so I don’t need to look presentable, and the people I do see generally expect that I’m going to be a mess. Also, I’m comforted by the honesty of looking as sad as I feel.

One of the kind gifts I received after Jim died was a Giving Key. It’s a key stamped with a word, and you keep or wear it until you find someone who needs the word on your key more than you do. Then if you’re ready you give it away. My key says Brave. When I received it I couldn’t think why I would need Brave. What does being brave have to do with losing your heart? I figured it out. It takes bravery to go out into the world when there is the risk you’re going to cry to strangers. It takes bravery to go back to things you did before. Walking out the door as a new widow requires a deep breath and mustered gumption because you’re an unfamiliar person, and you don’t know what it’s going to be like to interact with things and people from Before. Brave is appropriate. For now I need Brave.

AT MY MOMENT • VII

Whaaat? Megan posting on her blog? Crazy, right? I have no explanation for my sudden presence, but here it is. Your enthusiastic gratitude isn't only noted; it's noted graciously.

So what am I doing right now? Well, I'm lamenting the impending death of my vacation. I'm grateful for my job—I like it, and I adore who I work with—but I sure do dig me a long break. But tomorrow: back to the drug-pushing grind.

I'm listening to Iron Chef America on Hulu. Did you know that I love food TV? It's true. I love pretty much everything about Chopped, Iron Chef, MasterChef, Cupcake Wars, and the like. I'll admit though that I'm always disappointed when the Iron Chef secret ingredient isn't something that lends itself to a dessert. Or two.

I just finished filling my online grocery shopping cart. I'll pick up the food tomorrow. I pull up to the grocery store, push a button, and my sweet personal shopper wheels my purchases out to the car. If you don't think that's downright incredible, you're an idiot, a full-blown dunce.

I'm thinking now might be the time to get off my butt, wash my face, brush my teeth, and go gobble one of my beloved prescription sleeping pills. But Megan, those things are addicting! Oh, thanks for your concern. But I don't care. If it happens that I'm addicted, I truly don't give a damn. I've decided that addictions are a-okay so long as your body systems are functioning properly and the addiction isn't getting in the way of day-to-day responsibilities. But I also think that Swedish Fish are a perfectly acceptable dinner, animals have thoughts, Wikipedia is an infallible source of facts, and crème brûlée is as appetizing as torched snot.

In other news: 

I'm divorced. My annivorcery is December 3rd. Surprised? Yeah, I was too. I mean, not at the tail end, but when events came to pass that spelled the eventual demise, I sure did raise the ol' eyebrows. (Mastress of Understatement here.) That could have something to do with my recent online absence. It could be that I'm still doing a lot of avoiding when it comes to The Online. Does it look lazy? Does it look rude? Oh, I give not one damn. Certain life events can really drive a person to manage her expectations of herself.

And because you're super polite I'll loop you in on what you're dying to know—I'm doing well. The last half of 2012 was an effing disaster, but I have a mind-blowing support system, and these days I'm feeling pretty darn good. And here's something that might be influential on that front:

In a week I'm heading to Cambridge, Mass, to graduate with my Masters degree in Words. Excited? Doi. Proud? Certainly. Ready to be done with it all? Not really, no. I've been having a blast, and I don't want it to end.

Over and out, team. For who the hell knows how long . . .

AT MY MOMENT • VI

It's 11:30AM. I'm just now eating breakfast. Not because I didn't eat it at the regular breakfast time, but because I just got out of bed.

I'm at my parent's house. They're at church. I could say that I meant to go with them, but that would be a lie. They go to church at 9AM, and that so ain't happenin' if I don't have a calling to get me there.

This breakfast is maple pecan Bear Naked granola that mom buys on Amazon because, like me, she uses Amazon Prime and we love buying all sorts of things online that we'd buy anyhow (dog food, toothpaste, granola) and getting "free" two-day shipping (with Saturday delivery!). For Ma and me, Prime absolutely pays for itself. 

In the bowl with my granola is almond milk. And a handful of semisweet chocolate chips. Because I got out of bed at 2:30AM and ripped open a bag from the food room; I couldn't sleep and needed some chocolate. I shoveled them in my trap via the rest of the Fritos scoops.

Yes. That's a real thing. And I did it. Charlie, the new rescue mutt, was sleeping in my room and was very confused by the conscious night eating complete with reassuring commentary—aimed at the both of us.

Of course—I mean, really, of course—I still couldn't sleep afterward. So I watched a few New Girl episodes on my phone. Even though my laptop was so close I could touch it. When I realized how ridiculous it is that I have watched every one of the 17 episodes at least four times each, I turned off the phone and nestled down into the bed for sleeping.

Fail.

Instead of sleeping I kept thinking through an essay I started writing earlier in the day (or, rather, yesterday, I guess). All these ideas. When I lay in bed at night the wheels still turn, and I can't stop them. Tonight I wheeled through the things I have to do, the things that are stressing me some—

. . . must write something for elephant journal or I'm gonna get in trouble, must submit pieces to that competition my faculty advisor sent me, must finish that sticker design, must work through first draft of craft essay, must buy cellophane sleeves for my prints, must edit those logos, must stop eating chocolate chips in the middle of the night, must buy Wanderlust tickets, must rewrite that poem, must revise that letter, must figure out what's wrong with the garbage disposal, must stop leaving my books on the couch downstairs, must figure out how to arrange the loft, must convert the guest room back into a guest room and revamp the guest bathroom, must fix falling down curtains in my office, must stop eating chocolate chips in the night, must buy new master bedclothes already, must get new barstools, must clean out pantry, must put recipes in binder, must check paystub, must juice the rest of those vegetables before they go bad, must make my dog un-fat, must figure out how to make my skin look less old, must, must, must, must, must . . . 

The only way to cease the turning this time was to get that MacBook Pro within reach and put the essay ideas in black and white.

Which I did.

And then, at 5AM, I slept. Meaning I got my customary 6 hours.

When I came upstairs this morning the three furry terrier faces met me. I call them Team Sue. Now they're sunning on the deck. Why is the weather nicer on this Utah mountain than it is in my Northern Nevada home? Not fair. Where I sit at the dining table I can see Team Sue on the deck, the covered-over pool waiting for warmer weather, mountains that still have snow, and the trampoline on which I played last night with my nieces and nephews thinking, Oh, so this is what it was like at the Tower of Babel. I couldn't understand a word. I did, however, understand completely when Sam started screaming. I understood that he really hated it on the tramp. So at least we've got that going for us.

AT MY MOMENT • III

I still look post-yoga gross. I came home after class, changed out of my wet things, did not shower—but did wash my hands (this is important), and came down to the kitchen to do kitcheny things.

There are cookies in the oven. They're Nutella cookies with white chocolate chips. It's a new recipe to me. I hope it's good. The cookies are for the kids in my Sunday School class who did the week's reading assignment. High five, Meg.

I haven't baked in months. In your life you've never met two more neglected ovens than the ones in my kitchen.

I'm out of parchment paper and keep forgetting to buy silpats (keep forgetting for like five years now), so I'm going to have to actually wash the cookie sheets. Ugh.

To write this I've taken a break from working on an essay for school. If you've been dying to know, school's going great. I love it. Truly.

There is juice in the fridge. My taller half likes fresh juice as a way to be healthy. So I'm juicing for him. Thus the amount of produce in the house is astonishing. And since we have that organic delivery thing, more's on the way on Tuesday. Drink, sir! Drink!

I know that the nutrients are best when the juice is served immediately, but ain't no way I'm getting up in the morning a second earlier than I have to to shove food through the juicer. So I juice at night after yoga. It'll have to do. Tomorrow morning he'll be drinking a juice of red bell peppers, carrots, grapefruit and strawberries. I thought I'd give him a fruity change. For the last few days his breakfast has been green.

I make the juice, but I don't drink it myself. Just doesn't sound appetizing. I'm a very good example. 

Husband's upstairs in the loft doing things on his computer. A documentary about Steve Jobs plays as background noise.

And the Soph—well, she can't decide what she wants to beg for. She vacillates between asking to get on my lap and wanting a cookie. The lap I can do. The cookie? Oh, Soph . . .

•••

Cookies just came out of the oven. I tasted one. I'm not sure I like them. It might be the texture though. This next batch is going in for a few minutes less cook time.

AT MY MOMENT • II

Again, like unto darling sister Whit I shall give you a snapshot of right now:

We just finished negotiating curfew with Lauren. She's heading over to a friend's house after a long day workin'. We said that she's not playing designated driver tonight, that if people are drinking and she's worrying about them driving she can steal their keys; but they chose to drink, so they need to have planned what comes next. It's not her job to be responsible for everyone's choices. Lo told us this won't be a concern tonight because it's Sunday night and people have work tomorrow.

I pause now to speak only to my mother: Susie, worry not. Lo isn't a drinker. She doesn't like the idea of drinking calories. She's very smart like that. And she doesn't hang out with major boozers. Some of her friends drink some. But not her bestie of late, Kindra. Kindra doesn't drink. At all. So feel good about that.

I'm digesting more pita chips than should have passed my lips. Ugh. And the hummus wasn't even that good. I'm also prepping for a manager ride-a-long this week. For some drug reps that's a major bummer. Not me though. My boss is the best. I like him as a person. I love his coaching style. It's so ideal that I'm often afraid it's not real. (As is my way.)

AT MY MOMENT • I

My sister, Whit, writes "At the Moment" posts on her blog, and, because I've got nothing even resembling originality, I'm going to steal the idea, give her credit the first two times I use it, and then claim it as my own thereafter.

And so, without further fishing self-deprecation . . . At my moment:

Right now I'm sequestered in my office doing what I do best: digesting Sour Patch Kids and procrastinating. This bout of procrastination has to do with logging my calls from today and finishing up my assignment for my interdisciplinary course for school (that's due tomorrow). Always something.

Sophie is also in the loft—passed out on the ottoman, I'm guessin'. Because she's fat she's getting walks every evening, and a mile and half does a number on our little number. 

Oh, and Lauren just came in my office and asked if she can sleep over at Kindra's. I think it's adorable how she asks me. She's a full-on adult, so she doesn't need to ask. But like I'm going to tell her that. And don't any of you do it either, ya hear?