It's Nothing, and It's Everything

This morning started well. I woke up in the early morning hours and heard my beloved owls hooting in the backyard. I fell back to sleep for a few more hours, so I had gotten a decent night's sleep. It was a lovely morning, sunny and cool. I got up, patted the cat sleeping in my bathroom sink, got my coffee, filled my birdfeeders, watched my backyard bunny hopping around. It was a good morning. 

And then I started to cry. 

I don't know why. I hadn't had a sudden memory or thought, I hadn't suddenly remembered some task I didn't know how to do, or some new bureaucratic snag to add to my to-do list. I just, completely out of the blue, felt so very sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. 

Sometimes grief works that way. Sometimes there's something specific that sets you off, but sometimes it's really nothing. Or maybe it's really everything. 

I've been looking forward to school starting next week, giving the kids a schedule, a structure, a routine, things to do all day instead of just hanging around at loose ends. I've been counting the days since my husband's death, waiting for his final death certificate to arrive so I can start dealing with all the red tape, making calls, filling out forms, scheduling appointments. 45 days passed. 60 days passed. I was supposed to have gotten it in "45 to 60 days." I'm worried that the "deadline" has passed and I'm still waiting. I'm looking ahead to the change of weather, knowing there will be a whole new round of things to do around the house to prepare for the cold weather: close the pool, turn off the outside spigots and irrigation system, arrange for snowplowing services, make sure the furnace is working. 

It's a lot. It's...everything. It's not just one thing that sets me off, it's the weight of everything.  

I keep using the phrase "eating the elephant" to explain how I'm trying to deal with things. You know, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time." Do just one task, solve just one problem, do just one thing. But every now and then, you feel so full that you're sick to your stomach, and then you look up, and there's still an awful lot of elephant there. 

I wish I had some lovely resolution to close with, some words of wisdom to explain that now I'm okay and things are fine and everything is just ducky. 

But I'm not okay, things aren't fine, and everything is definitely not ducky. I'm still sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. I'm still terrified of how much elephant I have left to deal with. I'm still frustrated and furious at the bureaucracy I have to untangle. I'm still worried about how I'll deal with everything. Yes, I have lots of help and support, but it still falls on me, and it sucks. 

This feeling will pass at some point, I'm sure, or at least it will lessen. But right now, it totally sucks. And I hate it. 

But I'm going to let myself wallow for now, because it's okay to do that. Wallowing is cathartic. Wallowing for a moment will eventually make me feel better. The need to wallow will pass. It's nothing. But right now, it's also everything.