This is a hard day. It’s a day I saw from the distance and thought, I can’t wait until. I couldn’t wait until my pain lessened and I could move without agony. I couldn’t wait until I started to live rather than survive, laugh more than cry. I couldn’t wait until the shock of it all wore off, if just a little, enough so I didn’t live my life in a constant daze of disbelief. I couldn’t wait until I could get out of bed every morning with at least a little bit of I’m okay today. I couldn’t wait until the memories of him didn’t knock me down to the ground where I would lay for hours, wondering how the fuck my life came down to this. I thought time would give me this and ten months seemed like the time where I couldn’t wait until.
Ten months now….ten months since the most important person in my life, ever, was killed and Life became cruel. Ten months since Grief replaced Peter as my constant companion, and Grief has not been kind. Ten months since my world became one continuous sadness as it spin out of control, leaving me dizzy, and sick of it all. Ten months since I lost friends who weren’t there, forgave friends who asked for it, gained friends who showed up unexpectedly, and hung onto the friends who were always there for me, holding me up, the ones I could not have go on without. Ten months since the ups and downs and downs some more tornadoed into the lives of my kids, leaving me helpless to protect them as a mother should. Ten months since I began to wonder what the hell I did to Life, the Universe, even God, to cause such an emptiness in me, one I know will never, ever, be filled up again. And ten months since the knock on my front door to begin this reluctant journey into widowhood, one I never wanted, one I never planned for, one I was too young have, and one I curse every day.
I wish I were healed, even though deep down I will ever be healed from Peter’s death. It was too big of a deal. He was too big of a deal. Grief still has me sitting on my ass some days showing me how much I loved Peter, and I did, do, and that love did not die with him. I will always love him. Knowing he loved me and stayed with me until Death separated us, brings me joy and pain. For if he lived, how deeper would our love have gone? How much more could we have created, together, as one? How much more life could we have lived? But the fact remains, he did die and all the wishes and hypotheticals does nothing to bring him back, does nothing to ease the pain of his absence in my life.
I am a different person since he died. Some of my humor has still not returned. I’m not sure if it ever fully return because Life became way too serious for me. I have grown jaded in a way I never thought possible, in a way this dreamer thought reality would never touch. The lessons I have learned about friendships, family, showing up, and how quickly life changes into a dark place, has left me reeling in pain. I have also learned of the goodness of people and how bright kindness does shine when the darkness ascends, even when I’m not always ready to accept it. My anxiety has lessened with the thoughts of “I am going through my worse, so bring it”. Living just for myself has brought on a certain freedom even though it’s one I never wanted, but here it and I have to make the best of it. Plan B never existed for me because crawling up in a ball while Life went on, or even worse, could not happen, would not happen. I was not made that way. I would not be that way at first for my children, and now, for myself.
I have grown since this all began. I have lived through the hardest times without crumpling too much. I have pushed myself to move, even for something as simple as making tea. I have held my own self at night because I no longer have Peter to hold me, and while it wasn’t the same, it is something. I have taken over everything Peter did as an us, learning much a long the way. I have asked for help, reached out for comfort, and told the truth when asked how I was doing. I have withered in pain and then rose again, and then withered and rose, a constant dance in the morbidity of the life I now live. And, now later into it, ten months later, I told my bestie I am even proud of me, and she responded she hope I meant it because I should be. And I am proud. Just to survive is an accomplishment, but to live into between is even a greater one. I am starting to see life in me.
In these past ten months, has my life gotten easier? Maybe in the sense I have accepted it as what it is- a life as a widow – and can still be blown away by what all that means. Maybe it’s easier because of how much support I received and how much help I sought out. And maybe it’s a little easier because pain does scab over. It is still there to be ripped open by memories or milestones, like “anniversary” dates, but it does scab and the pain does not gush out as often or as much.
I still mourn, ache, long for him. I mourn to see his crooked smile and the gentleness in his eyes. I ache for his body to be pressed against mine so I can take in the scent of him, the sense of him, the breath of him, his kisses, the feel of his lean, strong body on mine. God, how I miss the physicality of him! I do long for his wise, calm words that kept me grounded and played well off my pie-in-the-sky, head-in-the-clouds, constantly moving mind. And I want him back. Every day, I want him back. I have never stopped wanting him. I have never stopped knowing I can’t have him ever again and that is where my pain will never cease.
Peter, I miss you and all that mean. These past ten months have been fucking hell without you, yet here it is and here I am, still standing. I am different. I am changed. I am strong. I am proud of me…and to be your widow.