15 months
You can get used to anything, apparently. The thought is both a comfort to me, and horrifies me. I have gotten used to him being gone, because he keeps not coming back. I have gotten used to writing to him in my journal instead of interacting with him. I have gotten used to missing him.
I get a lot of practice.
It horrifies me, in that, intellectually, getting used to someone you love being dead is a disgusting idea. But the same human mind that allows you to ignore the dishes for a week plus, that allows you to live with that paint smudge you were going to clean up immediately from the paint job you did 3 years ago, allows you to get used to a life without constant interaction with your beloved. I guess that’s probably better than not getting used to it; I don’t think I could survive feeling the shock every day forever and ever. I did for months after he left, and waking up each morning was a nausea-inducing jolt when I remembered again that he was gone. It was usually my first thought. It isn’t now.
I find it hard to believe 15 months have passed. It seems like forever, and the blink of an eye. I can’t believe it’s taken this long for me to feel better, and I can’t believe I’m feeling better already. I can’t believe this is my life, and yet it can be no other’s.
Where am I after 15 months?
I still measure the time he’s gone in months…but I have stopped counting in days.
I still kiss his picture every night…but I have stopped kissing every picture I have of him every night. And I don’t cry every time I do it now.
I still think about his family…but I have stopped letting it wreck me. My interaction with them is now pretty much the same as it was when he was alive: none. I feel that things have come full-circle on that count; strange, but not inappropriate.
I still cry…but the complete meltdowns have slowed to about once every month, month and a half, or so.
I still think about him all the time…but I can actually focus on the conversations I have with others now.
I still am wearing t-shirts and shorts or jeans every day, as I have since he died and it was all I could manage to be clean, vertical, and clothed in something comfy that would hug me all day long. I don’t know whether that’s actually going to change; I doubt it. These bodies of ours that can quit on us at any minute do not seem worth fancying up, to me.
I still listen to our songs several times a week…but they don’t kill me like they once did. I listen to them when I need to feel close to him. I can still feel myself in his arms, him in mine, as we danced in his living room.
I still write to him in my journal every night…but now there is much daily news about my life in there as anguish and sorrow.
I still visit my online grief group…but don’t participate as much as I once did. I don’t feel as a part of it as I once did, and I’m not sure why. Maybe I don’t need it as much anymore? Or maybe they don’t need me.
I still don’t understand why he had to leave me, and everyone else who loves him…but I’ve mostly stopped asking “why?” I didn’t get any answers the first million times I asked; seems unlikely I’ll get one now.
I still have down days…but I have started enjoying beautiful days again.
I still haven’t made cookies yet, because I couldn’t stand to make them and not send him any. But I’m going to make some tomorrow.
I still have a case of “widow brain,” though it’s less acute now, but it doesn’t concern me much anymore. Mostly it manifests in harmless things, like finding the peanut butter or the container of dog treats in the fridge.
I still don’t care how messy the house is, for the most part. It’s not a priority. Not the kitchen part, anyway.
I still don’t care about a lot of things that I used to think were important. It’s kind of freeing.
I still don’t know who I will be because of all this, but while I know I’m not the same, I think I’m not quite as different as I thought I might be.
I still get the physical symptoms of anxiety when I have unacknowledged or unexpressed emotion, but the constant heart palpitations are gone. Regardless, I still find it disconcerting.
Sometimes I notice it’s the 15th of the month; sometimes I forget until it’s passed. I remembered this month, obviously.
I can move stuff related to him around now without breaking into hives.
The memories now make me smile as often as they choke me up.
I’m going to be okay, it seems. I am surviving this. I have to say it out loud, because I didn’t really believe it would happen. And I’m a little afraid to say it out loud, lest I jinx myself. Grief is a tempest, and as soon as you think you’ve found your feet, a huge wave comes and knocks you on your ass, so you learn to tie yourself to the rail and remain wary at all times. I’ve been feeling steadier in the last week than I have since he passed, and I’m hoping I can hold on to that feeling. I guess we’ll see.