The pain of time passing us by

Today is eleven months without my husband. 

After today, I have no more months remaining as a barrier between myself and the dreaded “one year” mark. 

I will no longer be able to say to myself that it’s not even been a year yet. I will no longer be in the “infancy” of grief. 

I will be considered far enough along in my loss to be a veteran. I will have people start to question why I haven’t been able to do this or that yet… after all, it’s been a year. 

The world will expect me to pack up all of my sadness in a tiny, little box. To be stored on the shelf of my life indefinitely. 

And all I can think is that I cannot do this. 

I can’t do it anymore. I don’t know how I’ve done it this long. 

Every single day so far this month has included a breakdown of some sort. I think I’ve cried more in the past nine days than I did in the last eleven months combined. 

I am tired. I am weak. I have no resolve left. 

I. Can. Not. Do. This. 

And I don’t need anyone telling me that I can. You don’t know me. You don’t know what this feels like for me. 

I have been strong. And I have been encouraging. And I have been bloody inspirational. 

But I can’t do it anymore. 

I am done. 

I am ready to let the darkness consume me. The finality of my loss is sinking in. Maybe in the back of my mind I thought he would come back. Maybe the images of his lifeless body that are burned into my soul were just conjured from a lifetime of watching way too many crime shows on tv. Maybe he was just on deployment or training or a really long adventure trip. 

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. 

But no. He was not. He is dead. He is not coming back. 

Never again will I see those bright, blue eyes…sparkling a little when he was up to something mischievous. Never again will I hold his rough, weathered hand…smaller than mine, but strong enough to pull me through the trials of life. Never again will I wrap my arms around him, cradle his head to my chest (yes, I was a couple inches taller than him and could easily do this) and squeeze as tightly as possible…trying to transfer all of the love that I felt from my heart to his. 

I will never get to see his smile. I will never get to hear his goofy laugh. I will never feel the warmth of his arm around me as we drift off to sleep. 

Never. Again. 

What is this life without the person you promised forever to?

I’ll tell you what it is. 

It is broken. It is empty. It is painful reminder after painful reminder. It is an aching deep inside your being for the one thing that has ever made you truly feel alive. 

It is tears in the shower. It is bawling on the drive to work (a task I do not recommend). It is intrusive thoughts of self harm that you know you would never act on, but they sound so delightfully appealing…an end, however brief, to the incessant pain. 

It is knowing people are looking at you out of the corner of their eye when someone says something potentially triggering. It is all the questions you are dying for people to ask…but knowing they won’t be comfortable with the answers. It is being completely alone despite being surrounded by people you love. 

It is like nothing you can ever imagine. It is your worst nightmare multiplied by a million. 

I would never wish this type of pain upon anybody. 

I am but a shell of the person that I once was. I wear a mask. I put on an act to fool you into thinking I’m okay. I am hollow. I am hurting. 

I might not survive. 

This is what loss does to you. This is what it feels like. 

I have 31 days left before I have to say that I have lived a year without my best friend. 

I dread the moment that I wake up on day 366. And every second that passes after that. 

I have lived eleven months without my person and today, I am not okay. 

14 thoughts on “The pain of time passing us by

  1. I hit the one year mark in 12 days. 12 days! It feels crazy because I still feel stunned from everything. I also used to think people were nuts when they said the second year was the hardest. What could be harder than raw grief. But now the fog has lifted and I really need to construct who I am and my life. And I am exhausted.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I feel all of this. I feel like I am forced to be here without the one person who made life worth living. When I let myself think about how long it’s been since I’ve looked into Sean’s’ eyes , I have no idea where those days have gone. My brain can’t process time. It’s just a blur of immense pain.

    I wish I had some of that inspiration you wrote about but I’m stuck here in the darkness too..

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Yes. There is no making sense of any of this. This is not the life I wanted to live. It’s not the life I would want for anybody.

      The inspiration is for other people. I want everyone who is suffering to know that this is not the end. That they can pull through. And yet, I can’t seem to tell myself the same. πŸ’”

      Liked by 2 people

  3. I honestly don’t know how any year could be harder than the first. All those anniversaries…the first wedding anniversary, the first birthday, the first Valentine’s Day without my love. I feel like I’ve passed through an exhausting illness. Now that I’ve gotten past the first anniversary of his death, I feel more or less resigned to going on without him, as much as I wish he were here with me. Note that I said “here with me”, not I wish I were with him. I have severe bipolar disorder and I’ve been suicidal more than once, but for some odd reason that hasn’t occurred to me during all this. It’s not an option anyway…my kids don’t need to lose both parents so close together. They’re all long grown with families of their own, but they still need me. And if that’s what’s needed for me to stay here, so be it.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I’ve heard people say the second year is the worst. I told my therapist that and she said that it could be if someone hadn’t started actively grieving…and evidently I have managed to begin that process. So, if nothing else, I hope it’s the same and not worse. And I’m glad you have a reason to not be with him. Our people should all be with us. I like to think they still are…but it’s just not the same.

      Liked by 2 people

  4. You are so not alone. It’s been four year since and counting and still feels as fresh as yesterday. I don’t be want this to discourage you but just like you said you are not alone. Never feel hesitant to reach out. β™₯️ Much love

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you. I am not discouraged, no worries. This is the life I was given, I will carry this pain around in my heart forever. Just like everyone else who has lost an important part of themselves. Some days the burden will feel lighter than others, but it will never completely go away. πŸ’œ

      Liked by 1 person

  5. Breathing under water, dear sister in grief. It is not a skill others can acquire. We are obliged. Like Sisyphus and his rock.

    The 2nd year is not worse than the first. Things suck. Just differently. Best this, worse that! Nonsense. Every day is different, each encounter different… always carrying grief in a too heavy backpack. Thoughts of self demise, a narrow focus on pain, and so much more besides the loss of J in that backpack can at any moment kidnap you back to early days.

    Things change. Slowly. Differently. The load shifts. Love stays but more enters our view. See them? You are not done yet observing the shore on which you’ve be thrown up.

    Liked by 2 people

  6. Everything you feel, I feel it too. Every single emotions. Every thought. Reading this post made me cry. In fact all of your posts that I’ve read so far, made me cry. I wish I could offer you comforting words but I can’t. I wish I could give you a hug. Hugs are the best in my opinion. No need for empty words. Because they are just that. Emptyp. I’m just wearing this mask every day. And I’ll just have to carry on to see where it takes me. Maybe some where. Maybe nowhere.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Virtual hugs back to you. I’m sorry that you are suffering too, but I’m glad that we have found each other. The pain is so much easier to navigate when we know we are not alone. πŸ’œ


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