It’s your birthday… it is the day you were born. The second one without you here.
It doesn’t matter how positively I live, my life in some important intrinsic ways is over.
Yes, I carry on until it’s my time to go, and yes, before someone drops another meaningless platitude about me cheering up or some other bullshit, I’m not even depressed at the moment. This is reality.
This man was a rich and detailed personality with a life and stories and memories and my world is still less colorful without him. Part of me, a big fucking part of me, was wrapped up in an imperfect and flawed but intense and long love, and part of my color is gone.
The shock is gone, the crazy lonely constant agony is not what it was for the last month after the one year anniversary I spent screaming and howling and moaning all night into morning until I couldn’t vomit or speak anymore. Until I collapsed from exhaustion.
Yes, by all means, carry on. Carry on. No-one wants to catch the bad luck disease from the widows and the disabled and the friends diagnosed with cancer.
Carry on even as the color of MY world is made pastel with memories I hold close to me praying I don’t lose them. And there is nothing physical to hold onto ever again.
Hold on and carry on even as it still feels so fucking bad enjoying things when he cannot do or be anything anymore.
But here I am. Because of our love I will continue to work my ass off to appreciate the life I still have — but — I will miss you as fiercely as we loved.
I will howl into the wind.
I will crash into the waves and re-emerge again.
Until I sink that final day.
And then return to nothing.