A lot of you are getting engaged, getting married, having kids, going on vacations, doing coupley type things, enjoying your lives.
I can’t read about any of it.
It’s not personal and I certainly do not begrudge you your happiness. In fact, as much as I’m able, I’m very happy for you. I’m glad someone is happy, because that someone is not me.
Whenever I see a blog post about your happiness, I either skip it or I read until my heart hurts too much to read more, which is usually only a few sentences.
I don’t envy, resent or even mind your happiness; I just can’t be a part of it.
My heart still hurts. A lot. It just doesn’t seem to be getting any easier. The grief pangs are less frequent and piercing, but not any easier.
For the first month or so after Male died, I couldn’t look at his stuff. I couldn’t listen to music that reminded me of him. I tended to avoid anything related to him, even obliquely, which was a lot of things. Things that made me think of him were off limits.
Now, I’m missing all the things I should have gotten from his apartment. Going through my books, I’m pissed that I don’t have his books, his favorite Eagles jersey, his hats, etc. These are belongings I should have and I don’t. I want all of his things and I only have a few. The items I have of his are not especially sentimental. They’re things he purposely left me like his bed, television, and ugly lamp; or they’re unimportant objects he left at my place at random. I have a book on acing tort law.
Right after Male died, I told everyone who asked that there were two things I wanted of his: 1) a story he wrote about the two of us 2) his music collection. It’s been thirteen weeks and I still have neither of those things and I have no idea what happened to any of his belongings. Perhaps it’s for the best that I don’t have more of his stuff. Living in a dead man’s things isn’t all that healthy I suppose.
Still, I want that story. I want his music. I want more of him. I want to roll around in his stuff and wallow and weep, because there hasn’t been much weeping going on. I’ve shut down and my mind is busy building another wall around my heart, supposedly to protect it, but really, to trap us inside. There’s not much I can do about it.
Stuff is just stuff, even if it is, or was, his stuff. An ugly lamp, a PS3, a bed, a Damned shirt. That’s all that’s left of him. That’s all there is and all there ever will be.