G and I are having the sickliest winter on record. Both of us have been ill every month since December, and to make it more fun, all our illnesses have been conveniently staggered so that I get sick just as she recovers, which means that someone is pretty much always either getting over something or coming down with something. I don't usually catch her viruses, so I'm guessing my immunity is at a low ebb right now, probably from stress. Forget a spa weekend; I need a weekend in a sensory-deprivation tank. Preferably with a vitamin C drip going into my arm.
I'm just not feeling well in general lately, either physically or mentally. People talk about the "pain of grief," but it isn't really a pain, at least for me. It's more like a low, constant fog that drifts just above ground level and makes everything seem damp and sad and hopeless. It's been like that almost from the start. I was frozen with shock for a long, long time -- a couple of months at least -- and I was afraid that something horrible was waiting for me on the other side of it, some indescribable agony out of a Greek tragedy. But when the shock finally wore off, it was the fog that came creeping in to replace it, and it's the fog that's still with me now. Sometimes it thins out for a while, but it always comes back, the way fog does at night, rolling in from the sea.
I still function in spite of this, but not very well, and I always have a vague feeling that I'm not doing a great job at things. I can't give a hundred percent to anything because there isn't that much of me left to give. The rest died when P did, or else got lost somewhere in the fog.