When you ask me how I am doing, and I tell you "I am fine," I am lying. Two years, 2 months, and 3 days ago, Richard died, and I haven't been "fine" since.
I am the one person who is always supposed to be "fine." I am the eldest child. I have moxie, practicality, and resolve. "Karen will be okay." "She is so strong."
I have none of those things, and I am not okay; nor am I strong.
Every single day takes every single bit of willpower to get out of bed. And then to stay out of it. Sleep is my refuge. In a dreamless sleep there is nothing, and, for now, I am kind of a fan of nothing.
I cannot say why we never had a family. It's not as if we didn't consider it; it just wasn't something that worked out for us. We were our family. The 2 of us. And we were content with that. But, now, there is only 1. I belong to nobody and nobody belongs to me. I am achingly lonely.
"She acquires momentum as she advances." (Virgil)
Momentum gets me through each day. I run because it is momentum.
In the span since "after," I have added approximately 15 miles per month to my running totals. I have to keep running. When I run, I do the laundry, go to the grocery store, play with KC, clean the house, make dinner. Then, and only then, do I allow myself the luxury of stopping to read, watch TV, or take a nap, because, once I stop, I am done.
"A body in motion tends to stay in motion." (Current ad for a popular arthritis drug)
It has been 795 long and excruciating days. I am not fine, but I am an optimist. So, I believe that one day I will reclaim some sort of joi de vivre; until then: p = m * v