Dirty laundry

Every day I walk down the stairs from my bedroom and my first thought is "what fresh kind of hell awaits me today?". I used to be an optimist. I was the one that always said that everything would be okay when Mark would say that the sky is falling. He was right in so many ways. He said that he would die young, he did. The sky really is falling - or at least it feels like it is all around me.

I tend to come from a background of dealing with problems by brushing the dust off of you and hopping right back in the saddle and finishing what you started. I've been brushing the dust off of me for weeks, and it seems like there's more of it, not less. Every day something innocuous pierces me. Today it's sorting dirty laundry. How is it that I can still be doing Mark's laundry four weeks after he passed away? I'm still finding socks...underwear, even jeans. It doesn't seem right that something so inconsequential as cotton should still be on my couch, while someone as important as Mark is six feet under. I'm raging mad - vacillating between believing that there is no god (I refuse to capitalize "g"), and feeling that if there is, I want to kick her/his ass. Either Nietzsche & Dostoevsky are right, and god is dead, or god has fallen asleep on the job - just look around you. Free will? Mark didn't choose to die of free will. The people being killed in Iraq aren't being killed because they willed it to be so. I used to have faith...not necessarily in a religion, but at least in a god.

Now all I have is orphaned socks, the feet that wore them is gone. The other half of my heart is gone, and I am pissed off about it.

Natalia