Sorry to disappoint, but this is not a sad post about how much I miss my dead husband and am longing for a new love. It is a post about me being grouchy and how I just HAPPEN to be widowed and grouchy on this of all days. But it's got nothing to do with Valentine's Day and everything to do with my...

That's how I feel about Mark, both of those feelings at once. Sometimes I feel like I might burst, as if there are too many feelings and my body might actually explode or evaporate, in which case I will cease to exist, having been overcome with emotion. It's too much for one person.

I've certainly learned to relax more, though I could easily credit that to my depression and PTSD. Given the ravioli incident, some might say I've let myself go a bit. Maybe a lot. Whatever your opinion, I'm not sure anybody would disagree that since Mark's suicide, I function at about the level of your typical, American pre-teen, mood swings and all. If you don't believe me, read on for some of my finest examples.

Now I'm frustrated with nowhere to put this frustration. I'd give it to you, my dear life partner, but you killed yourself and are no longer here.

I'm not sure how other people get ready for dates, but my prep included a sobbing cry mixed with cursing at my dead husband while sitting on the couch with half-dried hair and wearing nothing but a towel, followed by a last-minute change of plans due to my panicking over said dead husband and then more crying over how I probably scared Studmuffin off with my panic over dead husband. 

I don't know how else to say it except that nothing seems to fit anymore. Sure, there have been moments, but for the most part, everything from the BEFORE is like a square peg to the round hole of the AFTER.

I apologize if reading this leaves you with a lesser impression of Mark. Please consider that he was all the beautiful, kindhearted goodness that you remember, as well as a human being with personal struggles. I request that you use this as a lesson that can make a difference for others, maybe somebody in your life. Maybe even you. And if you're as nasty as the voice in my head that's telling me I'm a bad widow for telling Mark's secrets now that he's dead, too bad. This isn't your blog. HA! Plus, Shaela told me she has my back no matter what, and she's the best friend anybody could ever have in the whole world. So there. 

All was looking pretty good until it came time to blog. I have plenty of ideas for posts, but each subject seems to have a rather heavy and cumbersome sack of guilt strapped to its back.

But once I got inside, I could shut the world out. It felt like I was in my own bubble. If the neighbors could hear me, I didn't care. From that moment until I moved out almost four months later, that apartment was mine, the only place where I could just be. Just me and the glass on the floor, some of which stayed there as long as I did.

Mark actually really sucked at taking care of me when I was sick. He DID all the things, but he was fairly insensitive. That's what happens when you marry a Marine. They tell you to suck it up until THEY get sick, and it's as if the world is ending. Seriously, the man could have had a sniffle, and we had to stop everything to watch movies and rest.

By the end of the call, we had plans for a date on Sunday! And then I called Shaela to give her the news, as well as texted my sisters, one of my widsters, my roomies, and eventually my stepmom and brother. And then I told my mom. No, I'm not crazy or obsessed. I was just so damn proud of myself that I wanted to tell everyone.

When Mark chose to take his own life, I was gifted an entirely new set of unsolicited (and unwanted) facts, views and bits of information. Here’s a list of some of those things I didn’t know before, none of which I can ever un-know, most of which I can’t imagine even WANTING to know, and all of which I learned the hard way.

And thus began the proverbial roller coaster of emotions. It's about 10am on Saturday. My dead husband's birthday is the next day, and I haven't gone grocery shopping yet for all the food I plan on cooking for everyone under the sun. And now I'm going to the Marine Corps ball...

I saw my reflection while passing a window, and OH BOY! Grumpy McGrumperton was alive and well!

It's like a plague of ickiness that has glued itself to that voice in your head that replays nonsensical b.s. and does nothing to empower you, but instead convinces you that life is doomed...the one that never shuts up and seems to have a fetish for all things awful and unpleasant. Imagine giving it a taste of suicide to add to the endless reel of disempowering folly. Then try getting some sleep. Or focusing. Or doing something without forgetting what it is you're doing and why.

This is probably why I've never been asked to eugoogoolize someone. I take too long and use too many words. Perhaps this is more of a tribute to all dogs and to the honor of being with another as they leave this life.

I was certain that when this day came, I would word vomit about losing my husband to suicide and scare away any poor guy who dared to ask me out.

Alas, two hours have passed, and all I can come up with is that I don't know what to write about.

So I’m doing what any trendy, grief-stricken person would do: I’m starting a blog.