“Moody Blues” (Post #14) Lessons Learned by a Dating Widower
I have absolutely NO IDEA how the English rock group Moody Blues got their name. But ever since I heard their song Nights in White Satin back in 1967, I’ve enjoyed their creativity. And ever since I’ve become a widower back in 2010, I can relate to their name (and that song)
I can’t explain how this transpired, but since ‘Ruby’ died, I have a problem. That problem is a melancholy ‘funk’ I seem to experience from time to time. I can’t describe that ‘funk’ better than calling it an unpredictable mood that I get . . . a ‘blue mood’ of sorts.
It doesn’t happen often. For example, I’m writing this post on March 20, 2013, and the last ‘blue mood’ I felt was just before January 1. But this particular ‘funk’ lasted several months. At the time it first hit me, I was dating ‘Dee’. And I really thought I was in love with her – in fact we both admitted that we loved each other. I was seriously thinking about proposing to her when all of a sudden – like an unwelcome overnight virus, I felt disinterest, boredom, apathy, and lack of desire for ‘Dee’.
I couldn’t explain what happened, but after sharing the details of my ‘funk’ with her, I said “Goodbye” . . . and I expect it could be for the last time. And she was a beautiful woman. I felt horrible, as I broke her heart, and she didn’t deserve it.
This ‘blue mood’ was not a stranger to me. I’ve felt them before – but NEVER when ‘Ruby’ was alive. ‘Dee’ wasn’t the first woman to witness my ‘funk’ in my widowhood, but I hope she’ll be the last. When that ‘funk’ hit me in late December of last year, I finally realized that I AM THE ONE who needs help. I have the issues to resolve, and I need help to resolve them.
Now think about it for a minute. When our tooth needs a root canal, do we ignore it? Do we just shrug our shoulders and suck on ice? Or do we drill our own tooth? No way! Even though I don’t like it, I go to a skilled orthodontist and hire their expertise! So, when this most recent ‘funk’ hit me, I knew I needed someone who knew what they were doing to ‘look under my hood’. I contacted the hospice agency who helped during the passing of my wife, and they put me in contact with a grieving counselor, a psychologist who came highly recommended . . . and the diagnosis began. Oh, and he was a ‘he’. I can’t imagine sharing with a female counselor what I’ve shared already with you in these posts.
Five consults later, I’m beginning to see the light. With compassionate techniques, he was able to gently open my padlocked heart. I’ve learned that when you use words (spoken or written) to share your story, you exorcise the agony and pain that was trapped in the crevices of your consciousness. Like an orthodontist’s drill extracting the dead rotten nerves, using words magically extracts the dead rotten emotions locked inside your psyche. He described the process by saying my sharing was like me painting a picture, hurt by hurt, color by color, experience by experience, stroke by stroke. Believe me, what I’ve been extracting from my heart wouldn’t resemble any work of art (ok, maybe an x-rated horror scene).
I’ll always like the Moody Blues. But my goal? No blue moods; I’d rather have bluegrass. No melancholic funk; I’d prefer melodic folk!
Now that you’ve finished reading this post, I’m sure you have some thoughts on this topic, and I’d love to know what they are. Feel free to post your comments, whether you disagree or agree with what I’ve learned. I’d be indebted to learn from your thoughts and experiences too!