I Feel Guilty for Being Relieved She’s Gone
“Happy” and “relieved” are two very different things.
The anxiety is still here. I look at my landline phone with dread — is the light blinking? Is there a message from her (she only remembered to call my cell phone half the time)?
It’s more than anxiety, but I’m not going to encroach on anyone else’s trauma and call it PTSD without a professional diagnosis. But the fact is, in my mind, I’m still in that nursing home with her. All day, every day.
Sometimes it’s more real than wherever I physically am.
I start crying for no reason, out of the blue. I bounce up and down between elation and suicidal depression. I can’t write. I don’t care.
When I’m sleeping, I’m still half awake, waiting for a call — she fell, she’s sick, it’s the police, it’s the hospital. One time a stranger called my landline by accident in the middle of the night and there was such terror in my voice, the woman was speechless and then apologized profusely once she found her voice.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with my time. My world had revolved around taking care of her. Now I had no purpose. What do I do when I come home from work? Relax? That’s a joke.
