Snowbound

I hate it when I let so much time pass between posts.  It's amazing -- I have so much to say, and yet I can't get myself to actually sit down and write.  I struggle more than ever with procrastination and lack of motivation.  There are times when I will stare at a glass of water on the table next to me, wanting a sip but lacking the energy to reach for it.  Other times I will want to change the channel on the TV, but reaching for the remote requires too much effort, so I continue to watch something that holds no interest for me.  I've had times when I've wasted hours contemplating getting up and accomplishing things on my to-do list, or pacing the rooms trying to decide what task to tackle.  In the end, I simply can't muster the mental or physical energy to do anything.

Much has happened since my last post.  I moved out of our rental house in Massachusetts and back to my hometown in New York, and temporarily into the house in which I grew up.  It's the most reasonable place for me to sort things out and get my bearings.  However, the first night I was back in my old bedroom, I stopped, looked around and almost felt a sense of failure -- like I had embarked on a wonderful life several years ago, and now I was back home with nothing to show for it.

I am also currently looking into a possible post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) diagnosis.  Hearing the suggestion that I may be dealing with some PTSD actually brought me some relief.

Tonight, while a major snowstorm bears down on the northeast, I sit home, alone, reflecting on many things.  Tonight is one of the nights when it would be wonderful to have Mike here.  Actually, I need him here every night, but a night when one is snowed in is the perfect time to be with the one you love.  Nothing says contentment more than having nothing to do but snuggle into the person you love.  This is one of the many little things most people don't get.  While so many are complaining about shoveling, temporary power outages, boredom, I sit here in sheer loneliness.  This is the exact situation I would love to experience with my husband, and he is the one thing missing from this equation.

It is right around this time of year, 10 years ago, when Mike was first diagnosed with cancer.  I can't believe it was that long ago, and yet in many ways I remember those early fears and anxieties like it was yesterday.  I remember sitting on the bed in Mike's room, both of us staring, puzzled, at his ultrasound pictures, wondering what the hell was going on.  His frightened, honest words, "God, please don't let this be cancer," still echo in my head.  Nights like these just make me want to grab that man and hold him.  I want to protect him from what I ultimately know is coming.  Yet, I can't.

What is it about bad weather that brings out the loneliness so profoundly?  I guess it's just a reminder that these are the times we're supposed to be home, glad to be safe in the arms of our families.  All it reminds me of is how alone I really am.