Christmas 2015. We stayed home last year and went to Electric Safari at the zoo. I remember Adam saying “I am really enjoying this.” When I think of how much anxiety and depression was in his life at the time, this makes me happy.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. I can’t remember what I’ve written and often the same things go around and around in my head.

My favorite horror movie is “The Descent,” and I have always had a favorite part. I wonder if it was some sort of foreshadowing that it was. Spoiler alert, but the movie starts with a woman losing her husband and child in a car crash.

Later she gets stuck in a cave. She panics, and her friend comes to help her. Her friend says “What are you so afraid of? The worst thing that could have happened to you has already happened, and you’re still here. This is just a poxy cave.”

This sums up my life. The whole scene actually sums up grief really well and was probably meant to, and you should watch it (three minutes of your life):

That’s the thing. What am I afraid of? The books all say to face your fear and tackle it head on. But for awhile I couldn’t think of what scares me.

I’m not afraid of being alone. I’d just rather have Adam with me. But that’s not going to be, and the reality hits more as the shock wears off. For me, this is the worst possible thing to have happened to me. You can’t even try to imagine it. Don’t try. It’s depressing. It is often unreal still. I miss him. I miss him so much I can’t breathe sometimes. I shout all the platitudes, “Why me?”  “Why him?” “Life isn’t fair.” And it doesn’t change a fucking thing. He’s just gone.

I’m afraid of not having joy in my life again. I’m afraid of this pain lasting forever, and I’m afraid of the pain going away. I’m afraid if the pain goes away, Adam goes away. Sometimes I can still feel his fingers, his hands. I can feel his hair, and his ears.

I went down to the basement with just my phone light. I shined it on boxes and books and papers. The last remnants of his life. What are these now? They are just things. I don’t feel like I have the authority to do anything with them because they are not mine. They are his.

When you have “things” taken from you, no doubt the grief is real for the loss. When you have all these “things” and it is the person taken from you, the realization of the worthlessness of “things” is overwhelming. “Things” serve as a reminder to a memory. And what about the “things” that were Adam before I was in his life? How do I ever make a decision on that? How do I pass on or throw away what was precious to him?

It’s haunting in the dark, with the dog by your side, to look at memories. To look at your own memories. It’s all that’s left.

Everybody dies. Everybody. You just don’t imagine it will be you. You just don’t imagine it will be your love. Even if you try, you can’t because you can push it away and think of other things. You think there’s always tomorrow. We all do.

Until it crashes.


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