Well, I guess it wasn’t the grand finale, but we all probably could have guessed that. What can I say? I just love “writing down” all the things. Should I keep them to myself? Maybe. Does anyone care? Not really. Am I still going to continue to write them down and publish them? Apparently so. And that thought process took my brain down a whole rabbit hole of selfishness. Because when I write, it’s about my life, my kids, my dead husband, my, my, my. Which led me to holy crap, I’m a selfish cunt. This whole thing is all about me. My thoughts. My feelings. My whatever I want. We know grief is selfish, but I wonder if it’s something we ever overcome. I’m leaning towards no because here I am, almost 7 years later, still just talking about myself and claiming it therapy. And that, my friends, is just a moment in the life of my anxious, self-loathing and, apparently, selfish brain. And the clinical term for that, I’m fairly certain, is anxiety. (The downward spiral of shame, that is.)

Which brings me to my first point (this is gonna get a little heated so you may want to look away). As we all know, almost 8 years ago, my husband was diagnosed with uh-oh buddy, you’re gonna meet your maker way quicker than you thought, cancer. And meet his maker he did, 13 months after said diagnosis. Very tragic – left behind 2 beautiful boys, a very bratty brown dog and one raging lunatic but sometimes cute wife (and many others, but again, I’m selfish). That’s me, the wife. Now, as you can imagine, that kind of news is tear-your-nervous-system apart devastating. It was then that I was prescribed Xanax, to take the edge off and to help me sleep. And I have had the Xanax prescription on hand every day for the last almost 8 years. Do I take it every day? No. Do I take it more days than not? Yes (see above if you’re questioning why.). Is it good for me? I’d argue yes but apparently my new 13 year old female Doogie Houser doctor (nurse practitioner) doesn’t think so. Lucky for me, she doesn’t “believe” in Xanax. Good for you honey, I don’t believe in Santa Clause but that doesn’t mean I deprived my children of it. Now, I’m sure my little baby doctor is a good person. I’m sure she knows way more than I ever will and I’m even sure she’s great at her job. For some patients. However, I’m a middle aged widow trying to raise 2 kids to not be selfish, narcissistic assholes (like their mama), working 2 “jobs”, caring for 2 dogs, 3 homes, 2 cars and a partridge in a pear tree. (Now would be a great time to break out your violin.) They say if you’re gonna have a pity party, make sure you don’t invite anyone and make sure it’s short. So, here, you’re all invited to my long winded pity party (because: selfish cunt).

Anyway, I don’t think it’s good practice to take a brand new patient that you’ve met twice for approximately 4 minutes that’s been dealt a fairly shitty hand and just cold turkey take away her “keeping her shit together” medicine. I do realize that Xanax is not altogether healthy; however, neither is copious amounts of wine on a daily basis, so pick your fucking poison. Pardon my French. But mama, while maybe presents like she’s holding it together fairly well, is a big fucking mess inside and sometimes needs something to take the edge off. Hence the need for the Xanax prescription in the first place. She did prescribe me an antihistamine. So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice. Said no one ever. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

Moving on. I had another not prophetic dream. About my husband. I was going to South Carolina to help my Jackie boy move some of his shit home for the summer. When I got there, one Ash Jones was present. I thought it must be his doppelgänger, until low and behold, he approaches me and gives me a great big hug. Says it’s him. He was never dead. He had an accident, fell into the sound, was rescued and whoever the hell I took care of with the cancer that looked just like him, sounded just like him, was exactly just like him, wasn’t him at all. I had watched a stranger die. Not Ash Jones. Ash Jones was alive and well. Just living on his own for the last almost 7 years. You can imagine my shock when I asked him how in the world he had been living, where he was getting money from because for all intents and purposes and according the United States government and social security administration, he was dead as a fucking doornail, (I think those are official government words) and he said his mom had been funding his life. What. The. Fuck. Now, at first, as you can imagine, I was elated to see my dead husband wasn’t, in fact, dead. In my (dreaming) head, I was thinking about where in the world he was going to live (not sure why it wouldn’t have been with his wife and kids, but I’m dreaming sans Xanax), or if there were even room for him in my house. Somehow dream Kellie forgot she built a new house and it was nearly empty, getting emptier every year. Dream Kellie thought she still lived in her old Clamshell house with her brother and there was no room for the now, very alive, Ash. The elation quickly wore off, though, as dream Kellie realized that not dead Ash had been not dead for almost 7 years. That not dead Ash left Kellie to do everything without him for almost 7 years. That not dead Ash was just living his life on his mom’s dime. That not dead Ash had not one single time, in 7 years, tried to come home to his grieving children and wife. That not dead Ash’s mother had been lying to Kellie for almost 7 years; had been pretending to grieve right along with Jack, Colt and Kellie. So, Kellie pushes very not dead Ash away, looks him directly in they eye, and very sternly declares “there is no room for you in our lives any longer.” And then my alarm goes off.

What in the fuckety fuck? That is a mind fuck if there ever was one. I was very unwell that whole day. How real that dream felt. How happy I had been followed by immediate heartbreak and betrayal. The guilt of what I said to him at the very end. All of that just churning in my selfish cunt brain. My brain went in a million different directions. I always like to think there are signs everywhere. From above. Or below. I don’t know how it works. Anyway, my takeaway from that very twisted dream is that maybe it’s ok to move on. Or maybe it’s beyond time to move on. Or maybe it’s time to find a doctor that will give me Xanax.