Yucky Lil Wid Days

Yucky Lil Wid Days. That’s what I’ve dubbed those days of pure hell that come sweeping in out of nowhere. Well, not out of nowhere. ‘Cause let’s just face it, there isn’t one thing about being widowed that’s light and arid. I mean, we’re living, breathing testaments of most people’s worst-case scenarios.

But I’ve digressed…(I very often do).

In my widdahood, there’s months of consecutive, daily sobfests followed by days or even weeks of–while certainly not bliss–alleviation. I’ll be able to move through my routines without meltdowns, epic or minuscule. There was even a four month stretch where I actually felt hope for my future.

That’s not to imply I didn’t have tearful days dotted throughout that time frame (yes, that’s a disclaimer).

Yucky Lil Wid Days are those days when you wake up and the whole world feels wrong, bleak, and heavy. There’s no exact etiology behind these days; it’s not like you’ve been triggered by a picture, familiar scent, a song, or a memory.

Sometimes, you can’t make it out of bed, or negotiate yourself to go to work, or even to socialize on any level. It’s this feeling of despair coupled with apathy, and there’s no getting ’round it. Don’t even try to explain it to your nonwidowed fam and friends (those friends you have left). It won’t resonate, trust.

I wish I had some wisdom to offer that might help any widda temper his/her Yucky Lil Wid Days, but I don’t. My suggestion is to hunker down and ride them out. Let the tears flow, the melancholy pervade, and eat whatever you damn well please, if it gives you even the tiniest smidgen of pleasure. (Only try and tamp it down a notch if you’re at your j-o-b).

Know that these random ports of hel—I mean, random days, are par for the course. May your tomorrow be better.

WIDDA B.

Blessed are they that mourn, for they will be comforted–Matthew 5:4

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