Is that really me?

Today has been a strange day. I find that the things that drag me into the hole in my soul are often small and meaningless to other people.
Early this morning, like at 4am when I couldn't sleep, I was cruising through the movie channels thinking I could find something so stupid it would literally bore me to sleep. So I settled on "Footloose." Could there be anything more inane and mind numbing. It was just at the part where Lori Singer falls to her knees in church and begs John Lithgow (her preacher father) for forgiveness and spits the "I"m not even a virgin!!" line at him. I did really well, almost dozing off until the last, obligatory prom scene when they were playing the title song and Kevin Bacon was shaking his money maker. It was at that point I flashed back to 1988 when Richard and I had the sunroof out of the RX-7 with my hair blowing in the wind. We were singing the "Footloose" soundtrack at the top of our lungs, laughing and smiling on Interstate 81 in Virginia. When I refocused my eyes they were filled with tears and I was swallowed again. Lost in yesterday because today is far to painful to remember. They aren't the soul wrenching sobs of the beginning but the slow steady heartbroken ones that come when least expected. So, I cried myself to sleep hoping to find solace in my dreams.
I awoke to the show on BBC America about the people taking their junk from the attic to the auction so that they may pay for something they cannot afford if they keep their treasures that are collecting dust. All really touching but I was in a hurry as I had to get ready for a job interview so sentiment was not paramount in my mind. I simply hit the high spots and ran for the door with a disposable cup of french roast coffee in my hand. As I drove to the interview consuming the chemicals, (caffeine and nicotine) that make me fit for human consumption these days, my mind was lost. Going over the correct things to say and what they would expect of me. Nerves jangling and checking my lipstick I pulled into the parking lot and put on my best work persona to have my best foot forward.
The interview went spectacular and I am a rockstar. They have already called and I feel good about the second interview. But, as I drove home, with the half hot coffee (as I do live on the sun it seems but at least the heat keeps the coffee hot) again my mind began to wander. How do I do this I thought? I turn my work persona on like she has a switch. My husband always said that my suits are like armor and I hide behind her mask. She is very career oriented and drives a hard bargain. Calm and collected, she never shows her emotions and argues with cold logic. Shes a stonecold bitch. But she is the rockstar that is gregarious and always has a good word. She inspires loyalty and leads by example. A perfectionist that expects no quarter and gives none. People like her. Hell, I like her.
What was quizzing my mind was is she really me? And how did I get so disjointed from myself that I can't see what everyone else sees? I have three close and dear friends that tell me they marvel at my strength. They see my heart and they love me anyway. How do I make the face I see in the mirror match the one that I show to the world? All I see is my weakness in my grief and my failure to stand up straight. My closest friend tells me that I will come out of this and that I will be whom I was again. But my life is forever changed and so am I.
My husband's illness was long and torturess. We fought agianst the dying of the light for over 13 years. Side by side and shoulder to shoulder, we made it work. We laughed and cried together. I would never say our marriage was perfect, but I would say that through all of the stress and strain we made it through together. And now he's gone. I wish were angry so that I could organize my thoughts and dismiss the tears. I wish many things. But like my sainted, wise grandmother used to say, "You might as well wish in one hand and shit in the other. See which one fills up first."
Well Granny, at this point, I've a hand full of shit.