Third acts are the most perilous, I think.
Lisa died a year ago Tuesday. I’m pretty much grateful just to be vertical and aboveground right now. I’ve spent this time trying to figure out what to do with what game-time remains, and I’ve begun to think I’ll make it back home somehow. Depression has been my great enemy, and this is (aside from when I had meningitis as a kid) as potentially destructive as anything.
The truth is that “life” has a completely different tenor. I remember reading the journals of Leonard Woolf and considering how he could’ve continued after Virginia. The fact is, he did. Now I have to continue after Lisa.
I’ve written as hard as humanly possible, and to be sure the days have been hard. Living “after” Lisa is so surreally different that (please forgive me if you find this offensive) it is like losing more than one limb at once. It’s like I’ve been cut in half.
No. I have been.
There really is no “life” “after Lisa.” There’s only the tremor that follows in the wake of her all-too-premature absence.
And now, my friends, I hope you’ll pardon me while I begin the process of transitioning, as Leonard Woolf seems to have done, toward something like “a new life.” I know my friends are in my corner. I welcome you there as well.