Pity Party

Today, March 21, 2015 is the four-month anniversary of David’s death. My middle-of-the night wake-ups continue, prompted either by an evening alone in which I mull over the sadness in my life and end up in a pity party, or by a traumatic event like the death of a friend. Full disclosure: I hate the word pity party. For some reason the concept reminds me of those women I met when I worked in Gresham, with their hair perfectly sprayed, dressed in nylons and matching pastel outfits, who rarely if ever contradicted their husbands. I don’t like comparing myself to them, and I really dislike¬†feeling sorry for myself but at the same time I get it: death and grieving are universal. I do, however, feel grateful that the raw agony of the first few months after David’s death has pretty much dissipated. When I focus on all I have to be grateful for in the present, I feel better.

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