Day three

I hadn't written about it because I haven't wanted a living document of this pain. I haven't even wanted to admit it was real. I haven't wanted sympathy anywhere, because sympathy meant it was true. I'm able to watch us experiencing grief in stages like a textbook, complete with backtracking and skipping ... with a general linear progression. Shawn is about half a day ahead of me. I look at him now, in the stoic place he has gotten to, and pray that I will get there soon. I'm running out of kleenex.

The rational brain tries to take over, and manages to do so sometimes for a half hour at a time, when pain becomes dull and bleak and achy. And then the emotional brain takes over and the pain becomes sharp once again. Wracking sobs and fetal positions and irrational thoughts of wishing to be gone. How can it hurt this much? It makes no sense. How can my heart break so many times over? I've been waiting to wake up.

O is coming over here tonight. I don't want him to. I don't want to get dressed. I don't want to take my hair out of the towel. I know Shawn is doing better now than I am because he got dressed first thing this morning and went out to get coffee and a muffin for me. Nevermind that I couldn't do more than pick at it. I was happy to see him showing signs of recovery. I managed to get into the shower at 4:30, and back into pajamas when I was done. I don't want to do anything else. We're progressed to a new stage. Now he's strong again and I'm crying all the time. He's holding me together the best he can. But it's not possible. He reminds me that he loves me, that we have each other. And that does bring me warmth. How I can be so lonely in the middle of so much love makes no sense. And yet it is. I know other people survive. I know we'll be okay in time. But right now I can't even imagine it.