I’m still trying to figure this whole “widow” thing out. It seems to be what defines me lately. Of course, I’m the one who is letting it, so that is no one’s fault but my own.

I try not to sink into the abyss of depression. I try to not let “woe is me” become my mantra. I try, mostly successfully, to put on a smile and face the world outside my home by being the Kim I once was. Most days I leave her at the door when I re-enter my sanctuary. But some days, the old me stays with me a bit longer. I laugh, I have fun with friends, I think about the future past the next twenty-four hours.  I actually go for a walk, attempt to get back into my exercise routine, try to be the person that I want to be again.

But at the end of the day, I am alone.

The standard definition of a widow is : A widow is a woman whose spouse has died. A man whose spouse has died is a widower. The state of having lost one’s spouse to death is termed widowhood or (occasionally) viduity. The adjective is widowed.

I find that I have gone through a period of sorts with the whole thing. At first, when asked if I was married I would nod my head yes. Then, as the months wore on, I would hear my voice saying, “No, I’m a widow.” Now, I have circled back to nodding and then actually saying “yes”.

Random Human : “Are you married?”

My voice : “Yes.”

The blinking red neon sign in my brain : “But he’s DEAD, DEAD, DEAD.”

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

My inner voice: “But I am married.”

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

The sign in my mind has no off switch, I have found. No dangling cord for me to pull on, no switch to flip. It blinks at the most inconvenient times. At work, in the shower, at the store, at 3am while trying to sleep but the messages of worry and woe that the sign displays are so bright and piercing that they flash behind my eyelids like a shard of glass in the sun. Today it hummed to life whilst I was speaking to the two nice census takers that innocently interrupted my breakfast. When it came to the question of how many people resided on April 1st in this big rambling house, I could see them exchange a look when my answer was simply “one”.

My marital status?

“I’m married.”

Another look.

“Well, I’m actually a widow, so I guess that’s the box you need to check.”

An uncomfortable look. The downward glances. The inevitable “We’re sorry for your loss.” Then, the tables are turned, and I’m the one comforting them.

“Oh it’s ok, thanks. I’m fine.”

Neon sign : LIAR. LIAR. LIAR.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

I hope the bulbs burn out eventually, the power that supplies it shorts out, I figure out how to sabotage it, something.

Until then, I live with it. I tolerate it.

There’s probably a pill that will make it go away, seems like there’s a pill for everything, so why not ? I tried something, briefly, but it wasn’t for me. I am one that wants to feel, wants to deal with the pain, not suppress it, where I fear it will fester and come roaring back after me with the ferocity of a lion.

So I go on about my days, my mind bathed in it’s glow, like some kind of internal tanning bed, lamenting my viduity.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.