I think I’ve officially hit the wall.
Not in a dramatic, movie-scene kind of way.
More in a “staring blankly at a pile of paperwork while eating dry cereal over the sink” kind of way.
Which, if we’re being honest, feels significantly more on brand for my current season of life.
I no sooner feel like I survive one traumatic thing before another one appears out of the woods holding a clipboard and demanding a copy of THE death certificate.
Apparently grief now comes with errands.
So many errands.
Did you know you can go to the clerk’s office FOUR TIMES for the exact same thing and still somehow get it wrong every single time?
Every.
Single.
One.
Because I do.
I know times FOUR.
At this point I feel like the clerks and I are in a committed relationship.
The truly absurd part?
The document I keep getting corrected on is something I technically don’t even need to file.
But somewhere between grief, lawyers, accusations, paperwork, estate nonsense, and feeling like every decision I make is being scrutinized under a forensic microscope, I have apparently become a woman who double dots every “i” and double crosses every “t.”
I don’t even know what that means.
But spiritually, it feels accurate.
Meanwhile, I’m preparing to relocate to Phoenix with my company for my dream role which is simultaneously:
- exciting
- overwhelming
- surreal
- heartbreaking
- and mildly psychotic timing.
Because apparently while grieving your husband and emotionally imploding, you can also:
- sell a boat
- sell a car
- prep five acres for sale
- clean out a barn
- coordinate repairs
- manage movers
- sort through decades of life
- and attempt to professionally lead people as if your nervous system isn’t held together with dry shampoo, caffeine, and blind determination.
Who knew.
And then there’s the reality that I physically cannot do all of this alone.
Which I H-A-T-E.
The barn cleanout alone requires help from friends who already have very full, very busy lives of their own.
And somehow everyone around me seems to also be carrying something heavy right now.
My best friend literally had emergency surgery and should be resting instead of trying to help manage my emotional support spiral texts.
Parker pops in and out of the house like Kramer from Seinfeld to “move” approximately three items at a time before disappearing back into the universe.
My oldest son is figuring all of this out as he goes too and staying with me while we both cosplay as emotionally stable adults.
And somewhere in the middle of all of this, I’m supposed to coordinate contractors, organize donations, clean five acres, prepare a house for sale, relocate across the country, and remain a reasonably competent corporate executive.
Honestly, at this point I deserve a small administrative support goat.
And then there’s the basement.
The basement and I remain locked in a psychological hostage negotiation.
I still haven’t really touched his things.
Not properly.
Not in the way I need to.
Every time I think about doing it, my brain immediately responds with:
Absolutely the f*** not.
Which honestly feels fair.
Because once I start opening boxes and sorting through clothes and deciding what stays and what goes… it feels so final.
Like I’m dismantling evidence that this beautiful life existed.
And I know logically that’s not true.
But grief is apparently not particularly interested in logic.
The strange thing is that underneath all of this exhaustion… I’m still excited.
I really am.
Phoenix feels like possibility.
Like movement.
Like proof that life can still expand even after it breaks your heart.
And I think that emotional contradiction is part of what’s exhausting me most.
I am overwhelmed.
Lonely.
Hopeful.
Devastated.
Grateful.
And the happiness I glimpse and the excitement I feel, feels like a betrayal. A betrayal to my grief. A betrayal to Marc.
I feel all of these things often within the same five-minute span.
But the dogs still need fed.
The grass still grows.
The barn still needs cleaned.
The boxes still need packed…
Oh wait.
I don’t have to do that.
Thank you reeeee-looooo package.
Life keeps moving whether your heart is caught up yet or not.
So I keep moving too.
Sometimes productively.
Sometimes emotionally feral.
But forward nonetheless.
And the realtor comes Monday.
Which means my psychological war with the basement is about to come to an end.
Saturday… I start.
Sunday… Parker, Greg, and Marc’s parents will be here.
We’ll open boxes.
Sort through decades.
Tell stories.
Probably cry.
Almost certainly laugh.
And somehow begin the impossible task of deciding what happens to a life that mattered so much.
The truth is, I’m not ready.
The thought of it sits like a weight on my chest.
Part of me still wants to leave every coffee cup, every sweatshirt, every random piece of evidence that he was here exactly where it is.
But Monday is coming whether I’m ready or not.
So Saturday, I’ll start.
Not because I want to.
Not because it’s time.
But because I loved him.
And because sometimes loving someone means finding the courage to carry them forward instead of keeping everything exactly as they left it.
