I’m so tired of being sad and tired. I’m depressed and I’m anxious and life is HARD. Everything is just hard right now. I’m getting out of bed every day. Showering most days. I’ve even prepared a couple of meals.
I have no concept of time. At the end of every day, we set the house alarm and congratulate ourselves on surviving one more day.
The thing is, I liked being happy. I liked being in love. I liked missing my boyfriend, and counting down the sleeps till we see each other again. We were to meet up in paradise. Please, we are atheists. We were to meet on the most beautiful Greek island and continue our love. And then he died.
The shock of that is still with me. I still can’t wrap my brain around it. How the fuck can this be my reality? What the fuck happened???
The pain is deep and tight and hard and real and raw and it hurts everywhere. My love has died. I still love him and he’s dead.
Eventually, I’ll take H to boarding school, A and I will settle into a routine, and business school will kick in hard and fast for 21 months. Until then, my priority is self care. Stay home and feel these awful feels. Mourn and grieve and cry and ache. It just sucks.
His tiger onesie has become my lovey. I sleep snuggled up with it. I carry it with me. At first, I was dragging his box of ashes with me, but that started feeling awful. Thinking about my beautiful man as ash inside that box on my lap, on his pillow. It was too gruesome.
My boyfriend was killed in a solo motorcycle accident sixteen days ago.
I hate that sentence. I hate all of this. I hate the pain, the longing, the constant questioning why.
My boyfriend is dead. I’m wearing his mother’s ring. My address is the final destination on his death certificate. His ashes are on my mantle. Some of his most personal possessions are in my house. His mail is being forwarded here.
Everything is wrong.