it was time to
go to take my perfect
child to the doctor.
that perfect child
started screaming as soon
as i put her carseat
into the base.
I hesitated quite a while before I wrote this post.
I don't know why .... I know without a doubt that you "get it".
Actually I do know why. It's because I don't want anyone to read this as a "poor me" post, or as an attempt to get sympathy.
It's not that.
It's just .... reality.
And I'm ok with it.Read more
I remember a time not too long ago when I couldn't taste anything, couldn't notice the sunshine, couldn't appreciate the beauty in anything. Getting out of bed and making it through the day was all I could handle.Read more
I have experienced using the word death, or the word grief, or the word widow and having people physically step away from me. I have been told that since I am young the death of my husband isn't as large a tragedy as it might be if I were older, since I am sure to remarry. I have been asked whether or not I am "over" my husband. People have looked at me from behind walls, sunglasses, the back of their cars, and then purposely walked the other direction. I have been told that finding another man to love would mean that Phil was not my soul mate, because how could you replace a soul mate? I have been asked to explain why I still talk about my dead husband when I have a new one waiting in the wings. I have been asked how I can possibly listen to the stories of other widowed people day in and day out without wanting to jump off the nearest bridge.Read more
I don't remember how Art kissed.
I remember how it felt.
Warm, sensual, desired, sexy, girly, vixenish, delightful.
When the connection was right, our kissing opened a door
that lead to ....
I wanted to touch base on guilt, as I believe it has played a role in my grief with Michael's loss.
The guilt that he died and I lived.
The guilt of the things he never got to experience that I now have been.
The guilt of having eyes to still see this world's beauty and ears to hear its melodies.
The guilt of knowing that he would have handled this pain, loss, and life better than I could, if it had been me to go instead.
Occasionally, I will meet a stranger in a line-up or a clerk at the store who notices my oft-perceived masculine purchase of a hammer, a litre of oil or a case of beer. Sometimes, people standing close by will make a comment about my husband and how lucky he is that I'm buying him this case of beer, picking up the oil or replacing this hammer.
When Jeff first died, these comments hurt. They broke me. They reminded me, as if I needed it, that he was gone. Dead. And I was alone.
i thought we were
going to skip this day?
here it is, 25th #3,
#3 of a billion yet
..... I am angry this week.
I'm more than angry.
(I'd say that I'm pissed but I don't want to appear un-lady-like.)
I'm angry at a certain person and the anger is magnified because he's not even here to notice or deal with it.
Yep, I'm angry with Jim .... who's been dead for 2 years and 2 months (but who's counting?).Read more
It has been such a long time since I have written you a letter. In fact, my eyes are welling up now realizing that I talk to you all the time in my heart but those words are no longer committed to paper. Remember the letters I wrote to you every day for the first year? I spilled my frustrations, feelings, fears, and memories across every page. More often than not the ink ran because I cried all over the journal paper as I scribbled frantically all the words I desperately wished I could speak into your ear.