Eight.

It’s been eight months. Eight months since that phone call changed my whole world.

It’s been eight months and my heart continues to break today, as it has every day. I keep waiting for the breaking to stop and the healing to start. I keep waiting for it to get easier, just a little bit easier. But it doesn’t. It hasn’t.

And it probably won’t.

Or will it?

Yes, and no. In all my years dealing with various forms of grief – this isn’t my first rodeo, after all – I’ve told people time and time again:

It doesn’t get easier. It just gets different.

That hole in your heart will never be filled. You’ll never be complete again, not in the same way. You just learn to live with that empty spot, that darkness in your soul.

I really need to learn to take my own advice, to listen to my own… wisdom, for lack of a better word.

But I’m not. I’m not listening to myself, and I’m not wise, either. In all the ways I’ve been there, done that… I’ve never been here before. I’ve never done this before.

This is all bullshit.

It hurts to breathe, knowing you aren’t. Signs of your absence are everywhere; you always take such good care of us we’ve grown accustomed to clean dishes and consciences. We’re fine, it’s fine, everything is fine.

Except it’s not.

I don’t know how to be in a world without you in it, too. No, scratch that. I could figure it out, I’m a smart girl. I could find a way to go on without you. I just don’t want to, and damn it I shouldn’t have to.

I guess you could say I’m angry. Bitter.

When the loneliness sets in, with its deafening silence roaring in your ears, you must not allow yourself to forget your reality. Don’t let the demons in, knock knock knocking at your door. The devil went down to Georgia but took a detour to pay you a visit. Send him on his way; there’s nothing for you on that trip except more heartache.

Lines blur between physical and emotional pain. Does my chest hurt because you’re gone or because there’s something wrong? It’s impossible to tell.

Untitled, as is often the case

Time is fickle. Incomprehensible. Years fly by while the days drag on but it feels like this moment will never, ever end.

So many things left unsaid, undone. There was so much left for us… no, for YOU, to conquer. I said this was your year, I just had no idea how incredibly right/wrong I was.

This void. This hole. This wound. I feel it will never heal but what’s worse is I fear it will. Don’t leave me, don’t leave us. Not again, not for good. Stay there, stay right fucking there in our hearts forever. Don’t you dare let us forget. Haunt our dreams, tickle our memories. I won’t dare forget. I’ll grasp at memories of you like they’re my lifeline.

They are, aren’t they? What else do I have of you now?

Gone… but not really. I can still feel you here, in this place, even though you are definitely not here. Why else would all these people be? All these relics of your time spent here on earth, gathered for display. Unreal. One day I may be sorry for the minimal role I played in it all, but for now I know I did as much as I could handle without crumbling to the ground or into it.

On promises and expectations

Don’t expect something you’re not prepared to receive, and don’t promise what you’re not ready to give. You can’t fault me for walking through the door you’re holding open.

That’s not how this works.

Where there should be trust, there are instead tests. Let’s see what she does… I don’t like games. Please don’t invite me to play. Chances are, you won’t like the outcome.

I thought I was passed the stage in my life where I’d have to question these types of things, but apparently some people never grow out of it. I learned long ago that the people who most loudly tout that they hate drama, are the ones most oft involved.