The Cruelest Month
Nov. 13, 2005. The day my world ended. Dec. 13, 2005. I am still here, yet not.It's been exactly a month, now, that I've been alone. I can't decide whether time has sped or crawled by; some of each, I imagine.
I feel guilty when I feel nothing. I feel guilty when I feel angry. I feel guilty when I forget to feel devastated. I hate happy people. I want to be alone in my misery; I don't want to be by myself.
I want to have fun and forget, for a few minutes, that my life is in ruins; I feel worse when I catch myself having even the faded resemblance of a good time.
I wear something of his every day. I am desperately afraid that I will forget what he looked like, how his voice was.
I am terrified that I am already used to being alone, even when other people surround me.
One of my lovely and wise commenters mentioned Donald Hall's poems about his wife's death. I write haiku in my head constantly now--the effort of compressing inarticulable feelings into a finite number of syllables is not soothing, but it is distracting.
I have never been a poet. I won't be one now.
I miss him. I miss my old self. I want the world to stop since he is not here to share it with me.
I still cry unexpectedly.
posted by Unknown @ 12:27 PM
6 Comments:
I'm so sorry. Anniversaries can be truly awful.
Without sounding too much like Frasier Crane, I'm listening, and I'm sorry.
I just started reading Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. It's very powerful and raw and not at all "self-help"-y. I don't know about you, but I'm not at all in the mood for "inspirational" fare, for folks (authors and/or friends) who say "you'll feel better." Perhaps I will. Perhaps I won't. But now, I just want to sob and sob and scream and grieve.
And eat chocolate.
I'm sorry it's a month. I'm sorry it's so long, and so short, too. I wish I could help. My heart hurts for you. You and the little sweetie are on my mind, every day. Keep putting one foot in front of the other; it's all you can expect of yourself.
I'm so sorry. Anniversaries are terrible things.
I don't think you will forget.
A therapist would tell you you're feeling everything you should feel when grieving--isn't that a pisser? I'm sorry. I'm glad there are so many people looking out for you, listening.
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