Before Felecci died, I knew I would not stay in the apartment we shared. It represented the hopes and dreams we had together. Those plans died a long time ago, and for many years I felt that I could not live elsewhere because I didn’t want to start new memories. I didn’t want to buy a house I would come to hate because she wasn’t there anymore.
I kind of knew I would wind up back in Brooklyn eventually I guess. I wanted to move back to New York if I wasn’t going to get my opportunity to start a family. I wanted to give myself every opportunity to find some peace.
My new apartment is nice, but I am here again on a Friday night not being able to figure out what I want to do. For entertainment, for life. Whatever.
It’s the odd thing about becoming a widow/er. It fundamentally changes you. I don’t like the same things I used to. It’s as if what I enjoyed doing in my spare time no longer feels interesting or important enough. But fuck me if I know what is.
I don’t get upset at this part of the process. But I’d very much like to figure it out so I can find a new hobby. I am a guy who needs goals.
Life Love and Loss 