After I Died My Alpha Went Crazy

Okay, let's be real. Death is a bummer. Big time. But hey, at least I don’t have to worry about taxes anymore, right? Silver linings, people, silver linings!

But here’s the thing: dying isn’t just hard on me, apparently. My Alpha? Let's just say he took it… poorly. Like, toddler-tantrum-over-a-dropped-ice-cream-cone poorly. And I'm not talking about a little sniffle and a sad playlist. Oh no. We're talking full-blown, "the-sky-is-falling," "end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it" level crazy. Think Mel Gibson in "Braveheart," but with more existential angst and less blue face paint.

The Denial Stage (aka "I'm Just Hibernating!")

First, there was denial. Good ol' denial. My Alpha was convinced I was just "resting." Like a really, really deep sleep. He’d leave out my favorite snacks (artisanal cheese and crackers, because apparently I have standards even in death), talk to my empty chair, and even tried to “wake me up” with the sound of crunching leaves. You know, because I always loved a good autumn hike.

I imagined myself floating above him, facepalming. "Dude," I mentally projected, "I'm a ghost! I’m literally translucent! The cheese is going moldy!" But alas, he couldn't hear me. Grief is a powerful hallucinogen, I guess.

It was like that time I tried to convince myself that my ancient car, Betsy, was just “taking a break” when the engine died. I kept adding oil, talking to her, even giving her a pep talk about how she was "almost there." Eventually, even I had to admit that Betsy was toast. My Alpha, however, was holding strong to his delusion.

The Nesting Instinct… Gone Wrong

His denial even manifested in this weird, almost maternal urge to “protect” my space. He barricaded my room. Seriously. He piled up furniture, old books, even my collection of rubber ducks (don't ask), against the door. I guess he thought burglars were going to break in and steal… my ghost? I don't know! The logic was fuzzy, to say the least. It looked like a teenager's room after they’d had a fight with their parents, only, you know, the teenager was dead.

The Anger Stage (aka "Everything Is Stupid!")

Then came the anger. Oh boy, the anger. Suddenly, everything was wrong. The weather was too sunny. The birds were too loud. The mailman whistled with way too much enthusiasm. Everything was a personal affront to his mourning process.

He started picking fights with inanimate objects. He yelled at the toaster for burning his bread. He threw a remote control at the TV because the news anchor was "smiling too much." I swear, I even saw him glare at a squirrel for having the audacity to bury a nut in "his" yard. It was like watching a pressure cooker slowly tick towards explosion.

It reminded me of that time my internet went down. I spent a solid hour cursing the modem, threatening the cable company, and blaming Bill Gates for all my woes. My Alpha took that energy and multiplied it by, like, a thousand. The squirrels were lucky to escape with their tails.

The “Everything Must Go!” Phase

This anger also led to a somewhat alarming purge of… well, everything. He started throwing things out. Random things. Important things. Things I actually liked. My favorite coffee mug? Gone. My comfy slippers? Vanished. The autographed picture of William Shatner I won at a convention? Tragically tossed into the dumpster.

I yelled, “Noooo!” (silently, of course, because ghost), as I watched my Shatner treasure disappear. It was like he was trying to erase me from existence, one discarded object at a time. I understand that grief is complicated, but seriously, Bill Shatner is sacred!

The Bargaining Stage (aka "Deal With God!")

Next up: Bargaining. Now, my Alpha wasn't particularly religious before, but desperate times, as they say, call for desperate measures. He started having long, one-sided conversations with the ceiling. He promised God (or whatever higher power was listening) that he’d be a better person. He’d volunteer at the soup kitchen. He'd give up his beloved motorcycle. He’d even… gasp… stop leaving the toilet seat up!

All he wanted, of course, was for me to come back. It was heartbreaking, really. He was like a kid trying to trade his entire Halloween candy haul for just one more piece of his favorite chocolate bar.

I remember when I was little, I tried to bargain with my mom to let me stay up past my bedtime. I offered to do all the chores, be the best kid ever, and even promised to never, ever complain about eating my vegetables again. It didn't work. My Alpha's celestial negotiation skills were equally ineffective, sadly.

The Elaborate Rituals

His bargaining even manifested in elaborate rituals. He’d light candles, chant in (badly pronounced) Latin he found online, and leave offerings of… well, more artisanal cheese and crackers. Apparently, the afterlife runs on lactose.

It was all very dramatic and, frankly, a little embarrassing to watch. I just wanted to tell him to relax, take a deep breath, and maybe, just maybe, consider therapy. But, you know, ghost problems.

The Depression Stage (aka "Existential Dread: The Remix!")

Eventually, the bargaining fizzled out, giving way to the inevitable: depression. The anger subsided, replaced by a heavy blanket of sadness. He stopped yelling at squirrels and started just… staring into space. He stopped showering (okay, that was a little concerning). He started wearing the same sweatpants every day. It was like watching a vibrant garden slowly wither.

He moped around the house like a sad, lost puppy. He played mournful music on repeat. He re-watched old home movies of us, crying silently into his (now very stained) sweatpants. It was the kind of heavy, soul-crushing sadness that could curdle milk.

It reminded me of that time I binge-watched a whole season of a super depressing TV show. I spent days wallowing in fictional sadness, eating ice cream straight from the carton, and questioning the very meaning of existence. My Alpha’s grief was that feeling, but amplified a thousandfold.

The Disappearance Act

This depression also led to a desire for isolation. He stopped answering calls. He stopped going to work. He basically became a hermit. He'd pull the blinds shut, crawl into bed, and refuse to emerge. It was like he was trying to disappear from the world altogether.

The Acceptance Stage (aka "Life Goes On… Sort Of")

Now, I'm not sure if he's fully reached the acceptance stage yet. Grief is a messy, non-linear process, after all. But he’s getting there. Slowly. Gradually. One baby step at a time.

He started venturing out of the house again. He even showered! (Huge win!) He started talking to his friends. He even cracked a smile. It was like watching the sun slowly peek through the clouds after a long, dark storm.

He still misses me, of course. I can feel it. But he's learning to live with the loss. He's learning to navigate a world without me. He’s learning to find joy in the little things again. It’s like learning to ride a bike after a nasty fall. It’s wobbly at first, but eventually, you find your balance.

The New Normal

He even started dating again! Well, okay, he tried dating again. The first few attempts were… disastrous. Apparently, "My dead spouse was my soulmate and I'll never love anyone as much as I loved her" isn't the best opening line. But hey, he's putting himself out there! That's progress! It reminded me of when I first tried online dating. So many awkward conversations and bizarre encounters. It's a minefield out there!

So, yeah, my Alpha went a little crazy after I died. Okay, maybe a lot crazy. But he's getting better. He’s healing. He’s finding his way. And even though I'm not there physically, I'm cheering him on every step of the way. Because that’s what you do for the people you love, even when you’re a ghost. And maybe, just maybe, I can finally get him to donate that rubber duck collection.

RIP (Rest In Peace) and remember to laugh even after you die.