Dogs from Hell

Grief, as a friend recently, wicked aptly put it, is a motherfucker. It's a slavering hound from hell – a beast from the lowest realms of the inferno. The bastard lacks even the faintest whiff of civility and decorum.

Right now I'm churning with a bestial rage. Why? Because my brilliant, beautiful wise man has been ripped from me – THAT’S WHY! Ya know, I do get it. Honest and true. I understand this life/death/circle of existence shit but, Jesus tyrannical Christ on naan, this is blindingly, astro painful.

What's up with this big grief surge? I mean, it's been 506 days since the end of life as I knew it – shouldn't I be, dunno, calmly melancholy with a gloss-coat of yearning at this point?

Tomorrow is Turkey Day. I was telling a friend that I didn't expect a mondo hod of sad over the day because The Amazing Bob and I never made a big Thanksgiving deal.

Ding dong, I'm wrong.

We'd cook for each other, make each other's favorite foods. I'd oven up some turkey breast with gravy and mashed taters for him. He'd magic me a raft of curried string beans and sweet potatoes. My talented baker man made flights of pies – Apple, pumpkin and the most awesome apple/pear. Sometimes there was blueberry too. We'd watch a movie and just be mellow together. It was always a brilliantly, sweet, quiet day. He'd watch some football, I'd read. We'd play with the cats. Blissful tranquility.

This wasn't a huge party day with a packed house BUT, in point of fact, it WAS a big fucking deal. We'd have a wonderful day together, we always did, and I miss it to a staggering degree.

At this time of year, in particular, the house reeked of fresh baked cookies (gingerbread, butterscotch/oatmeal/spinach, chocolate chip!) and happiness. Now? The kitchen smells of coffee, oil paint and loss.

I'm making she-Hulkian efforts to contain my tidal waves of fury and pain. I don't want to rip some poor unsuspecting friend's head off for their heinous crime of....dunno, not being TAB? I suppose that's what it all comes down to.

This will be my second Thanksgiving without him. I don't remember last year's at all. Tomorrow I'll be over at Jen and Oni's. Erin (with fam) and Mom and Pop McMurrer will be there. The meal will be lovely, the company cheery. TAB and his beautiful, beatific smiles and nimble, laid back wit won’t be there though.

When I saw my GP on Monday, I asked her if she thought it might help if I "dated." I've had some very nice offers and that might, ya know, perk me up, get me outta this thrashing pit of loss and anger. Mebbe.  

"Do you want to “date?” she asked. “Do you honestly feel like it?"
"Fuck no!," I quickly and oh-so-charmingly replied.
"Then don't. Wait until you're ready. You'll know when you are."

Huh, OK. Makes an abundance of sense. I guess I'm just looking for a magic pill so's I can beanstalk my way out of the pain.