Three months, three months I never would wish on anyone. It has been and eternatity and a heartbeat all at once. The reality that G isn't coming home still seems so far away. I stare at his photos and I feel like he could reach out and touch me. I still am quiet in my empty house in the early hours so I do not wake him. It still hurts every day when I return home and he is not there to kiss me at the door. I continue to miss him when I roll over in bed.
Three moths of dealing with institutions that keep referring to my G as "the deceased", of trying to accept their procedures and policies while my heart in pulverised (broken is not the word for the pulp in my chest). Of continuing frustrations with the indifference that survivors are treated with. Banal words interspersed with the sympathetic tones ands the sighs as cops, coroners, morgue works, funeral directors, doctors, crematorium people (whatever their jobs are called) talk to me....guess what fuck you too. I know, I know their just trying to do their job and it is tough blah blah blah .... but G is not my job. G was my best friend, my lover, my constant , my world. So yes I judge you!
Thirteen weeks where I have been introduced to so many new facets of dying, death knocks, caskets, body viewings, flowers, and words that are meant to mean so much, ashes and urns,post mortems, grief stages, meaningless words. What ifs up to my wazoo. Memories and triggers that drag me in to the past at the speed of light. Being an emotional rubber ball bouncing this way and that, back and forth.
Three months pretending that life is worth living when I no longer see the point. Why do we love? When love will inevitably end with pain. Three months of tears that I feel will never stop. 91 days of a truly physical ache.
"Love is an engraved invitation to grief"
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