There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
Washington Irving
One year.
One year since I held his hand.
One year since I was safe.
One year since I was whole.
One year of numbness, unbearable grief, loneliness.
One year of survival.
It’s not an anniversary. It’s not an ‘angel-versary’.
It’s just one year.
When darkness falls, my demons come out.
Laughing, dancing, taunting.
Whispering what should have beens, what could have beens.
Delighting in my despair of what it really is.
When light comes, they scamper away, patiently waiting for the inevitable cycle.
That is when the fog appears.
Distorting time, memories, life.
Forcing me to move through a thick layer of sorrow, push through a deep pool of liquid grief.
I want to stop. I want to curl up and hide, but I can’t.
Some inner force drives me on.
Friends, family, even the deep love I have for my husband.
All conspire to keep me here through love and support.
All conspire to keep me moving forward.
I resent them and love them at the same time.
But I know, if the roles were reversed, I’d do the same.
On January 27, 2016 at 2:37 pm both my husband and I died.
Who I was, who I was going to be, all died with him.
Now I am a shell.
Empty.
I wait for something to fill the void.
I search for things. But what little I have found rattles around so small and miniscule as to be unnoticeable.
I try and focus on one thing. One far off goal to get to.
The daily minutia saps my strength, my resolve.
I imagine my husband’s voice in my head telling me to stay focused, to achieve to live.
I argue back – why?
My future was with him, I didn’t pick this future, I didn’t want this future, this future is not mine.
And yet it is the future I have.
I have no choice. I must continue onward without him.
One year gone.
One year survived.
Today I will spend time with my memories.
Tomorrow I will start one more year.
Washington Irving
One year.
One year since I held his hand.
One year since I was safe.
One year since I was whole.
One year of numbness, unbearable grief, loneliness.
One year of survival.
It’s not an anniversary. It’s not an ‘angel-versary’.
It’s just one year.
When darkness falls, my demons come out.
Laughing, dancing, taunting.
Whispering what should have beens, what could have beens.
Delighting in my despair of what it really is.
When light comes, they scamper away, patiently waiting for the inevitable cycle.
That is when the fog appears.
Distorting time, memories, life.
Forcing me to move through a thick layer of sorrow, push through a deep pool of liquid grief.
I want to stop. I want to curl up and hide, but I can’t.
Some inner force drives me on.
Friends, family, even the deep love I have for my husband.
All conspire to keep me here through love and support.
All conspire to keep me moving forward.
I resent them and love them at the same time.
But I know, if the roles were reversed, I’d do the same.
On January 27, 2016 at 2:37 pm both my husband and I died.
Who I was, who I was going to be, all died with him.
Now I am a shell.
Empty.
I wait for something to fill the void.
I search for things. But what little I have found rattles around so small and miniscule as to be unnoticeable.
I try and focus on one thing. One far off goal to get to.
The daily minutia saps my strength, my resolve.
I imagine my husband’s voice in my head telling me to stay focused, to achieve to live.
I argue back – why?
My future was with him, I didn’t pick this future, I didn’t want this future, this future is not mine.
And yet it is the future I have.
I have no choice. I must continue onward without him.
One year gone.
One year survived.
Today I will spend time with my memories.
Tomorrow I will start one more year.
