Reason for Living

I have lately been thinking about why I am here now. After 55 years of being married to a wonderful, caring, loving man, I am now alone. I drift through the days wondering why I am here and why I have to stay here to endure loneliness, sadness, and depression. What is the purpose of this? Why can't I just go? I seem to be taking up space and each day is like the day before. I have friends and family, but, sorry to say, they just do not fill the void of having my husband with me. He was the one who listened to me, loved me, touched me, and was my best friend. Now, all of that is gone, and every time I think of him, I ache so much that I fall to my knees with despair. My heart breaks and the tears come. I ask God to have mercy and let me drift off before I wake.
That poem about "better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" is true, but when the love is lost through death, it is so unbearable. I am glad I loved, but I never thought I could be in so much pain.
I am exhausted and hope I can find peace very soon.
Thanks all for listening.

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Comment by Maxey on February 24, 2017 at 1:38pm
Thanks for sharing, Bluebird. The poem, unfortunately, says it all! My life has no meaning. I did think love would last forever, and I never even contemplated a life without my husband. I many times think that the end of my life should not be so tortuous, lonely, and sad. I weep for all of us.
Comment by bluebird on February 11, 2017 at 6:27pm

I understand, Maxey.

Personally, I find this poem by W. H. Auden a much better representation of what this horror is like:

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

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