I went to a shooting range the other day. I had never in my life held a gun before, unless you count a Nerf gun or BB gun. I was nervous at first, handling this deadly weapon. Such a powerful feeling, to feel the heft of the gun in my hands. For the first time since Ariella’s cancer diagnosis three years prior, I felt truly in control of something. Nothing like a cancer diagnosis to make you realize how little control we actually have over our lives. Sure there are plenty of things we can control, but ultimately, we are not in control. Anything can and does happen no matter the precautions we take. But at the shooting range, facing that target, I was the one in control.
Shooting a gun requires intense focus and concentration. There was no room for the stray thoughts and images that are usually burned in my mind. This was the only time since Ariella died that my mind was clear of everything but what I was doing in that moment. For any other activity in which I am engaged, no matter what it is, my mind is pulled in multiple directions, leaving only a part of my thoughts with the task at hand. My ability to concentrate has significantly declined. My memory is shot. Mornings I typically get the coffee pot ready for David after I pour my coffee. The other day I put the coffee in but not the water. One night when cooking dinner I was looking for the Parmesan cheese. I was looking everywhere in the fridge, knowing we had an almost full container but couldn’t find it. I resigned myself to not using it but when I turned back to the counter, there it was, mocking me. I had zero recollection of taking it out of the fridge. I start things but don’t finish and feel incredibly scattered. In fact, I started writing this post a week ago but couldn’t put down more than a couple of sentences at a time. I have plenty to say, just can’t seem to translate that to actual writing these days. Strangely enough the one thing that I can usually concentrate on is reading. I still get distracted and may need to read a paragraph more than once, but I can get through books as long as they hold my interest. So while reading doesn’t keep the pervasive thoughts completely at bay, it does help.
None of this has gotten any easier. In fact it continues to get harder. I am just missing out on so much and each day is another day I’m missing Ariella. Each day is another day of experiences and living that I don’t get to share with Ariella. Each night I lay in bed, missing the days when Ariella and I would cuddle together with books. My whole identity was taken from me and I’m struggling to move forward living a life in which I find no meaning. Before Ariella died I wouldn’t have said she was the only person or thing in my life that gave me purpose. But now that she’s gone, none of the rest of it matters. Anything else that may have given me reason before, just doesn’t cut it now. Pretending to live life is exhausting. I don’t want to do this anymore.