Wednesday 22 October, just over a month after

Wednesday, 22 October

Mostly I feel awake. I look back over the years before 19 Sept 2014 and I feel very estranged from the person I was. Not better and certainly not worse.

The year after my mum died seems a daze - I behaved in ways so unlike me, I thought and lived in a fog. It was essentially free falling, more or less aware, more or less willing. It was a year of indulging, of justifying by waiving the need of justification to myself. It didn't feel wrong, it didn't disappoint or gratify - it almost didn't feel like anything at all, with some very few spikes. I was going through the motions, but in a continual and pressing state of expectation. I started having minor anxiety attacks ( they might not have been minor, as I have no reference point and I can't quite verbalise the complexity, intensity and rapidity of those emotions). Existential anxiety. I look through the journal I stated keeping and the words that jump out from those smudged, crumpled pages are " I can't see myself" but I can't read an emotional charge in them - they are more of a N.B. and as I'm writing this it dawns on me - the explanation is in the actual words: I can't see myself. How can you draw something from something you don't see?

It wasn't depression, not in the way it's defined in medical terms -" feeling persistently sad over a period of weeks or months" and not in the way I define it to myself - a lack of vital energy. I did feel lethargic at times and lonely, lost and unsettled but no more than anyone who uproots themselves. It seemed more that my vital energy was wrong - diesel instead of petrol and I was getting nowhere fast. I was essentially what Kierkegaard defines as the unhappiest of people - one who dwells on the past or future, in such a way that they spend their life in the wrong tense. Well, looking back, I was twice the unhappiest because I was living in the past and projecting it into the future. I wasn't aware of it though, so bold as it may be, I'd go as far as to amend the philosopher's postulate and say I was the most foolish and the unluckiest - a fool for the obvious reasons and unlucky because I didn't catch it sooner. This is not to say it was an empty year - I travelled, I learned, I worked, I met people and had experiences but I was really living my life as a pass time.

A very cruel person once said to me you are like an animal - you don't learn by explanation, in a gentle way; you only learn by shock and aggression; in fact this is true of all humanity - the great lessons we learned were prompted by disaster and suffering. I was 23 at that time and my biggest problems were how to nurse a hangover and ditch work as much as possible, without hurting my chances for a quick promotion, as the rising star that I was. Am I more considerate now, more aware, more consistent, more my own person,  more caring? Yes, much more and a great many of the lessons I learned were indeed crash courses, hence I have no sense of evolution, but more of a rupture, as if someone picked me up and dumped me so hard that my bones shattered. So you start walking,wobbling, stumbling, falling and even crawling for part of the journey because the alternative is against our nature. Would I have learned the lesson diligently and gently? I think yes, I would've, with time and at the right time and frankly, the jury is still out on the value for pain of this clarity and insight, this change that is so apparent to all who know me and to myself. I am so grateful for all the revelations - and I'm not using the term lightly, but the not so fashionable, not so progressive  bottom line is that ignorance is bliss.

It's very difficult to live one day at a time, it takes patience, with everything around you and with yourself. You're so desperate to heal, to breathe easy again it's pathetic - not in the trivial sense of the word, but in the lyrical, etymological sense of intense sorrow, of passion in pain. But it's a decreasing emotion, it fades one day at a time because the human heart is not built to operate at such levels of sustained intensity - good or bad and feelings evolve,transform. I read about the notion of synthetic happiness, which is what you get when you don't get what you want. Essentially, it's part of our innate emotional autoimmune system and it's a blessing. It's our ability to to find a way to make ourselves happy with the alternative, choice or situation we find ourselves in, even though it's not the ideal scenario, or even very far from it. As it turns out - and this is scientifically proven, at the end of one year from the event, a guy who won the weight of his dreams in lotto money and a guy who lost the use of his lower body in an accident, are equally happy. 

My initial reaction is to ask what drugs are you on, mister scientist and may I please have some? Then I get off my high horse of sarcasm and realise I have been through this before, not so long ago and I got with the proverbial program and I was very happy.

I miss him every day, really miss him and he already feels very far away because I know he is never going to be here again and feeling like this is part of my mind's survival mode but it also gifts me with the cold realisation of what happened, at random times and I re-live everything. I wonder what I would choose if someone came up to me and offered me a pill that would erase him from my memory and the easy way out is so appealing but time and time again, I choose him. Now, if someone would finally invent that much coveted time machine...

On love, monks and an algorithm that works

Wednesday, 15 October and Sunday, 19 October

To be read while listening to https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=etta+james+sunday+kind+of+love

I'm struggling to grasp the nature of love, in fact, the entire concept and most of all its should be manifestation. How can I not when I would fall asleep listening the story of everlasting, ever-enduring, ever-conquering love, meant for one person and one alone, strong enough to defeat illness, evil, sorcery and death. Night after night, in a bedtime ritual that had my sister and I safely snuggled up and my mother young, beautiful, married to my father, reading to us, I was making my mind up about love - it was going to be a magical affair and it was going to last.

My first heart break knocked the wind out of me; the love was an infatuation and it was magical, but lasted only two weeks. So I changed one of the parameters and decided that I liked the magic, but I can't rely on it lasting. That's when I became passionate, expressive, wild in my love affairs, looking for and giving the kind of consuming love, the real love, where you feel one with the other. But the time horizon stayed abstract, yet very palpably trapped in a near future; I started reading more serious love stories, of terrible pain, disappointment, complexity, fear and disillusion and decided to call myself a commitment freak. I saw it as an attractive feature because it translated into being independent, granting freedom - sometimes too much or in a borderline pathological way, requiring freedom - sometimes in a savage, impatient way. I was never going to be needy, clingy, mushy, or in fact pretty much anything ending in "y".

I'm struggling with the idea and ideal of happiness because my hedonistic nature is pushing back hard against new paths I'm exploring at this time and circumstances in my life. I'm turning, or trying to turn more towards the dimensions of mindfulness - the present, letting go but not disengaging, being aware of one's thoughts but not consciously attempting to change them, peace of mind. But even the word itself - minndFULLness is problematic to me - it is a contradiction, and not just in terms, but even more dangerous - in terms and action, or lack thereof. You are required to think your thoughts away - to observe your mind's products and allow them to fade away. I've been riding the wave of passion in my life and learned to surf it skilfully; I've been admired and have admired people for their passion and hand on heart, have never heard anyone remarking in awe he/she is so wonderfully composed and subdued - that's so hot! 

I've never linked love to possession, yet cannot construct it without attachment. You love someone, live with and alongside someone with all that it means, from the nooks in their body that give you the rest you need, to the joy or pain you would only truly feel for yourself. How then, can you not get attached, while still loving them like that ? I don't only get attached to the person, I am terribly attached to the idea of attachment itself! How can I be passionately unattached? Is it really a trade-off or is the dynamic above my level of understanding at this point in my life?

I am perfectly, painfully and hopefully aware that all states we find ourselves in are temporary. I understand it as it is meant - not in the sceptical, bitter way of there being no point in looking for that connection and that relationship which will last and fulfil,  but that my own state of being at a given time will change and there is no need, no way and no desire to be instrumental in the process. In fact, it's precisely inaction that best equips you to navigate life, by letting go - being unattached.

I can play with these notions better when it comes to negative feelings of pain, fear or doubt and less or almost not all with the states of bliss, happiness, excitement. It's natural - I need to DEAL with these feelings and ENJOY the others...everything in between, is severely understated and wrongfully taken for granted. It seems like the itinerary of a train, with stations of pain and happiness, with the expectation that they follow in an orderly fashion, happiness after pain and even if a bit harder to swallow, pain after happiness. And then comes the great shock to the system when they don't play ball.

Unfortunately, I've not had the chance to read or talk about this with a practitioner that wasn't a monk, a social recluse - a typical pater familias or a mother. On the other hand, I have had the very great fortune of talking to a couple who are still incredibly harmonious and in love after more than 20 years of LIFE, who have formed a harmonious family and who are harmonious individuals. And they are very much attached to all that their LIFE is.

So as a conclusion, I end this tirade with a thought that has absolutely no reference to any of the above, but resonates with me and it's simple - find someone with whom you can laugh about anything, and everything will be fine.

On stuff people say and generally on people around you

Sunday, 12 October

There is no winning -indifference or normality doesn't feel right,it somehow undermines your pain,your extraordinary state of being at this particular time; equally, being handled with gloves, and constantly talking about it is tiresome as you feel the need to assure everyone that you know what is happening to you and that you understand this is a temporary state, that you will be OK..eventually. The worse kind of empathy - which stems from the best intentions, is thrown at you in personal stories of people who try to relate to you and talk about their losses. They inadvertently compare your situation to yours and you start to as well and empathy for you at this point is a depleting resource. You listen quietly, "empathising", but actually you would rather shout - my pain is worse,my loss is greater, no, GREATEST.

You will know the people you want to talk to - they somehow give you insight, put things into perspective, but most of all, listen to you when you want to talk about it and otherwise treat you naturally and you feel natural around them. They are in tune with you, somehow, they sense you and respond perfectly. They might be the ones you've known since you were a kid, or those whom you've just met and you felt friendship at first sight with, or the ones you would've least expected to get you, or those who have gone through something similar and in a subdued voice simply say I know  and nothing more. You will find yourself looking for the company of those who can help you decipher the meaning of it all. I found them - they were the ones I called straight away , after my brain finally managed to process the words Scott's been killed  and they saved my mind.

I am unashamed when it comes to my emotions, very analytical, self-critical, yet not at all judgemental - I will talk to anyone and sometimes in a matter-of-fact manner, which simply stuns people; I observed myself doing so after my mum died, when trying to explain the context of some particular time frame. I make people feel awkward and I am awkward about receiving their sympathy because with the passing of time, I am more and more reluctant to open the wound again but the scar tissue is there and begs an explanation, while I am perfectly aware that is part of me, part of my normality and my evolution.

Pain is not a licence to be mean, inconsiderate and selfish but the tendency sometimes is to feel entitled or to indulge and you start to slip into and unhealthy and ugly phase. I get angry at myself whenever I give into these feelings and no matter how many people tell me it's OK, understandable and forgiveable, I still believe it's not and must put more effort into controlling it.

My father has lost his partner of 30 years last year, the one he built a family with and his whole life around and he's now not old, nor young, surrounded by family and friends but with little hope that he will have a partner again,let alone love. He keeps saying to me you have to get over it, understand you're hurting him and yourself by holding on and you know very well there is nothing we can do to bring them back. It's the second time I've shouted at him I CAN'T GET OVER IT! It's been three weeks. He is at a loss, trying to explain that he meant I must look after my health and that who, if not him can understand me better? I feel like an ungrateful little bitch. I call him and apologise, crying, saying I love you and he says don't be silly, I'm just concerned about you, you are all I have..what would happen to me if anything happened to you?

On the other hand, three days after he had died I was told that this was in some way, a lesson for me, a warning sign that I have to correct some errors in my life, that this must be why such horrible things happen to me, I was recommended confessing my sins, consulting a priest, or a medium, or both ... feel free to be brutally dismissive of such tremendous and dangerous stupidity. Or of anything you feel is.

The Closing Ceremony

Thursday, 9 October 

To be read listening to this:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHCQ__AqzHA


I'm saying goodbye to Scott just a day shy  of the three unnaturally long weeks since he died and I wake up to a beautiful sun in an overcast sky, the colours of my anxiety. It's been almost three weeks since my mind hasn't stopped, my heart changing its beat to the ill orchestrated tune of a whole range of emotions from desolation to hopeful joy and back again within a matter of hours, leaving me in a state of expectation, of tension, as the only certainty I have is that it will be a hard day. I'm not sure at this point if there will be any tears and I am a bit worried that there won't. 

I'm lucky, as I find myself in the place I've come to associate with harmony, beauty, meaningful talks and easy laughter, with family and friends, with love and freedom of being and expressing who you are, a place where even the building, or rather, the home has a name - Carrot Cottage. It's right that it has name because it is as full of character, warmth and colour as the people who have found it, looked after it and let it be what it wanted to be. It's not perfect - the shower head keeps falling off at the most inopportune times, the oven door sometimes falls off its hinges, but it sleeps as many or as few people that need it and it never feels crowded or empty, it's colourful, playful, comfortable, a wonderful mismatch that just flows together effortlessly and it's bursting with creativity and individuality. The people who live there are musicians, artists, intellectuals, film makers, they are interesting and interested and have understood that freedom can only thrive on respect, love and communication.  I love them.

I start getting ready and see myself drifting into the ritual that precedes an occasion, considerably longer, more thorough, steady, calculated movements to counteract the impatience inside - I style my hair, put my make up on, consider outfits and then re-consider and in the end I'm pleased with the result. All the time I think Is this appropriate?? Am I not being superficial? But then it dawns on me - I'm HIS girl and I'm about to meet  people that have been part of his life before me, for the first time .. I will make him proud and show myself as he saw me - beautiful and in love. 

I step outside his house, with his family and see the coffin for the first time - this was what I feared most. I had heard it over and over - that's not him in there and I knew it, of course, yet there he was, or rather IT was, in front of me, a few yards and a lifetime away. I never saw him again after he gave me a kiss goodbye that morning, when I barely opened my sleepy eyes and I know it's for the best but my morbid, curious, obstinate mind just wouldn't let me settle. 

I was trying so hard to be dignified, to muffle my cries, to comfort his parents and brother and ended up a shaking mess, gripping his father's hand and latching on to him in desperate need of consolation. I heard everyone speak and felt their pain, most of all his brother's and then, as if in a daze, my name was called and I made my way to the podium, with the determination of a person who has a job to do. I started reading my own words, that I had prepared with tears and anguish just week or so before. They seemed like a memory I had dug up from layers of thought and time. In retrospect, I'm so happy I wrote them then, as they were raw and coarse. I read it to the end, as a cry meant to convince a disbeliever, although no one had questioned anything and now I realise I was actually shouting at whoever rolled the dice and took him away.

I had been saying goodbye to him every morning since it happened and pretty much all throughout the days that were washing over me or running through me thereafter, so there was no attachment to the coffin everyone was turning their last glance towards - I actually resented it..the box containing something so precious, so within reach, yet nothing of what it once was.

I was exhausted at the end of the day and I don't mean to be or sound ungrateful, but I was tired of words of consolation, of assurances that he loved me, of meeting people..so many people. Of course I didn't sleep well that night but the night after, before going to bed, I asked him to come and sleep with me - he did and I slept like a baby, without dreams.  

It's over now and like any milestone, riddled with anticipation, with a false sense of security, with the certainty of community, I was expecting to feel a void once it passed, the feeling of a come down after a powerful high. But the void was there before and still is, not any more or less heavy. 

On pain and waves

Thursday 2 October 

It comes in waves. Expect waves, waves of pain, of deep sadness, of joy. You'll not see them coming and they will knock you out. Those mornings or hours in the day you feel normal, you don't think about it will surprise you - it's too good to believe that the pain is gone, you know it rationally and the realisation brings it back. The yoga teacher reminded me : the job of the mind is to produce, that of the heart is to feel. I'm at a loss because I feel that I need to process this, to understand it somehow, not to run away from it, to take my time with it; yet it feels so good when I can't feel my heart. Since it all started, I can FEEL my heart and it's heavy and it gives me a nauseating sensation.

I haven't come to a conclusion on this and the only word of advice is when it gets too heavy, take a breath, stop, say I love you, cry and find something to do. It will oppose you and generally people say take your time but the more time you spend there the worse it gets. I am writing this in a moment of calm, in one of those good hours. And I think of children - they are often the ones who feel more pain than we will ever remember having felt , but their capacity to heal is endless. Is it because they are so eager to learn, explore, experience? Or is it just that they haven't learned the words to fully describe how bad it hurts? 

Do we amplify our own pain? When you cut yourself it only starts hurting when you look at it - that's the general consensus and I experienced the phenomenon. When I was in car crash a few years ago, I banged my head on the wind shield, cracked it open and felt nothing. The surprise of the incident, the incredibly short amount of time for such in intricate sequence of events and sensations to happen to my mind and body simply overloaded my circuits. I did start to have some headaches after the accident. But that's physical pain - you can re-live the incident in your head as many times as you like - it will never hurt again. 

The images that tormented me, or rather, I tormented myself with were that of  him in that car, alone, the moment of realisation he was going to collide and him getting crushed. My heart would tear violently, as if it were cut but a butcher's knife, in a steady, harsh, decisive cut. With my mother, it was the image of her feeling that one sharp pain that shook her entire body and the words my dad said she had uttered - my head really hurts . I kept playing the words and images in my head those first few days, knowing what they would do to me. I kept playing over in my head the phone call I got from my father on that Wednesday afternoon a year ago - your mother is in a coma and the doctors aren't giving us any hope  ( shy of one day), as well as the words that his friend said to me that Friday afternoon - Scott's been killed . Such harsh words, so definitive and cruel, but they fade comparison to reality. 

I find myself drifting back to bargaining - with my mother, I can now remember there was some - it lasted for the three days she spent in hospital, on life support. I remember going to the nurses and the doctor, with tears in my eyes and a praying look, a desperate but also hopeful look, asking them to tell me the truth about her. They would look back at me, that compassionate look that tells you it's not going to be what you want to hear - the doctor would say there is no hope of recovery and even on the off-chance her heart would start beating again and her lungs start pumping, her brain is a paste now. He would ask me to imagine the brain, with all the synapses, the shape it has, how it's tied together and then imagine my mum's is now mush. Still, for those three days, I hoped and when I started hearing my father plead, asking for her back, in any state, I realised I must start hoping she would die..and soon. With Scott, everything was straightforward and I was grateful.

I think about the pain I felt after my failed love stories ( two relevant ones before him), the pain I felt after losing my mother, even the pain I felt watching movies like Blue Valentine or P.S I Love you is THE SAME. It feels the same. It's equally sharp, your rib cage gets so tight that you feel like you will implode. What is different is the coordinates - the time it goes on for, the disruption in your life, the collateral damage it brings, the recovery time. Once again I realise, I have to accept I will hurt like this again and most likely, it will be caused by something much less tragic and when it comes to pain, well, there is no rock bottom.

Note to self : the emotions we go through are our own, we feel them, we live through them and there are no degrees of comparison. Scott's death hurts me as much as the loss of a pet, the falling out with a friend, the disillusionment with life or oneself.
As difficult this is to understand, both rationally and emotionally, I see how petty it is to underrate the pain of others, how unfair and cruel and while doing so is a natural reaction, justifiable to some extent ( we're human and deal in measurements, evaluations, comparisons), I can't help but think: when I'm happy I don't need anyone to be happy with me, to validate and augment my states of elation ... what entitles me to it when I'm not?

A more rational view

Wednesday 1 Oct 

I'm getting better at this - I have hours of normalcy and I haven't cried today. I went to a yoga class yesterday and it felt like a medicine, no, I can't even find the right words - gentle but focused physical exertion, mental cleanse. I spoke to the instructor, a wonderful Indian lady who told me whatever you do, when get home, get out of these clothes and bathe your body - wash the day off and even if you don't meditate or chant, make sure you lay down and breathe, at least 20 breaths. I will take her advice.

The days are less painful, or rather, the pain is less intense, but they are somehow harder to bear. They are reality in full swing, they are less tears, but more deep sighs. I remember reading a book, a memoir of love and loss ( this was the subtitle and the gist) - the author was narrating and illustrating the year following the tragic death of his wife - again sudden death. He said - at first, I would share my pain with everyone - friends, family, the guy who sold me news paper, then less and less - less emotional availability,less willingness to pry the wound open again. I'm starting to feel that as well, or maybe it's just an illusion. I can't rely on my feelings just yet...and there's the unfinished matter of the funeral ceremony, still a week away. 

I went back to reading on the stages of grieving, the academic explanation, the post-mortem of the post-mortem. One of them is bargaining. It's the third one - they go : denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The model was devised by a reputed Swiss psychologist and it claims universality and I read it thinking have YOU lost anyone, Elisabeth? I read about her http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elisabeth_K%C3%BCbler-Ross - she suffered two miscarriages and has two children; she's now divorced, a prolific and awarded academic. What bargaining? There is none - there wasn't with my mum and there is none now. I have no leverage! And my mind or heart never even touched the concept. Depression?? The first time around there was none and I'm hoping to escape it this time. A deep feeling of emptiness, yes, nostalgia, sadness, but it works the same way you train your body - you have to make an effort - not to give in, not to go to that dark, horrid place. For me it's friends, yoga, the gym, writing, work and school, replacing I miss you with I love you, talking about it, endlessly, to exhaustion, trying to create some sense. 

I have a saving grace - I GAVE him something so precious...he would've left this world that day either way. He met me exactly two months before he died - he could've met some other girl, who would've probably made him equally happy - he was so eager to give and receive love. But he met ME and I will always feel blessed - I can't help but think ..I was more prepared to give him what he needed and take the pain afterwards. I'm not taking anything away from us - he might not have met anyone and went contempt, but not happy...fuck, I'm happy it was me...

Some random thoughts :

Probably the most important gift he gave me was a lesson: be present in the present! I could feel him falling for me, with the excitement of child, with no fear of rejection, with no caution and offence at my slower pace. I was still bruised and over analytical - this is my nature. He had only certainties - he KNEW I was making him happy and that I was happy, he KNEW we would be doing this for as long as we're here. I could feel it, but I just wouldn't let myself say it. Finally and just in time, the week before he died I said it to him over and over and over again and he... well we were one of those annoying couples who just could not be apart, could not keep our hands off each other, knowing we should  still keep our independent lives to a reasonable extent, but never did.

Then he reminded me of how I deserve to be loved, how it should be and what I have always looked for, had but temporarily forgot. And it doesn't necessarily come in a lightning, love at first sight, romantic novel or Hollywood cute-meet. I had met him and thought nothing of him and the feeling, or lack thereof was mutual. But he showed up on my doorstep and the rest is a brief, beautiful history. 

He gave me his friends - what an amazing, generous gift! I am an expat, well... a wanderer. Ever since my mum died, home is tricky - it's my dad's home and that of my sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law. London is not home - I haven't even put up my pictures. My friends are scattered all over and that comes with both good and bad. The people he left me with showed me so much love, care, they made sure I survived this, made sure I knew we're all in this together and it's overwhelming and I just feel blessed and I thank him. They were his family and now mine.

I looked up the meaning of his name - it's wanderer ... What was he looking for and why go so soon? You would think I'd question why me? Why again? But I'm not - I think about his journey...hoping to find some sense there..it feels I have.

The day I met his parents was the day after his death - I was in his house, crying with his parents, playing with his dog, while he was up there, meeting my mum, playing with my dog - oh yeah, my dog died in April. His dad took me in his arms and he was ever so warm and open and vulnerable and so was I. His mum was trying to make sense, trying to breathe.. I didn't know how she felt about me. She wrote to me last Sunday ( 28 Sept) and called me precious, we opened up to each other, she thanked me and so did I. This was the first time I felt useful. 

The paradox:

The more pain, the more love. My heart is so torn by such continuous ache, I'm amazed it still works and yet, I feel LOVE. I love him, I love my mum, I love my friends. 

Monday 29 Sept, 10 days after

Monday 29 Sept 

I am 29; my trials have started at 28 and a half when my partner at that time fell out of love with me and shortly after, my mother passed away suddenly, having suffered an an aneurysm at the age of 56. As I was graduating this crash course in life, death, pain and acceptance, the most wonderful reward was given to me - I fell in love with the most unlikely man and after having confessed our love to each other, he died in a car crash at the age of 27, after 5 perfect weeks spent together. This was 19 Sept 2014, a little over two weeks before the 1 year anniversary of my mother's death.

Grieving is horrible -there is no sugar coating it because it shatters your being to the very last fibre and it's relentless. Reasoning helps but the understanding only touches a shallow level of your consciousness, until it sinks in, with the passing of time. Therapists have identified stages, coping mechanism to help you through each one but my grieving hasn't been and isn't so structured - either that, or my stages are measured in hour intervals, or even minutes. I go through stages of deep sorrow, unbearable, sharp - my heart is not simply breaking, it's tearing slowly and ever so painfully; then I feel peace, or even joy caused either by a thought, a word, a person, a memory or an event; then I feel desolation, a deep sadness and emptiness - it's the emptiness that is left behind by all the dreams, projections, even routine that have been taken away along with the person. I've only felt angry for a short while, almost unnoticeable, right after it happened - not angry at a higher instance that took him away, but at him for not being careful enough, at the lorry driver he collided with, at myself for not having picked up on some subtle warning. I still curse at him sometimes, but in the economy of my grieving, it's not even worth mentioning. 

Regret, remorse, guilt - these are the bullets, but they will not kill you instantly, they do it repetitively, each time more intense than the last time, each time together. Reason is the only bullet proof vest, but it feels more like a thin cloth. This time around I was blessed not to be in the firing line - he took away something perfect, he died in a state of bliss and I gave it to him. I am thanked and I find it hard to accept it, because it was easy for me, it reflected off what he had given me and too short lived to stand the trials of mundane life. However, I am ever so happy for him and now I am wearing a beautiful, subtle ring on the ring finger of my left hand, as we are and will always be engaged and he will never have to fear that this happiness will ever be taken away from him. 

Nostalgia drowns you, chokes you - nostalgia of the past but mostly of the future. I find the only protection against it is to replace " I miss you" with " I love you", as it keeps us in the moment and in the abstract, away from hopeful future, from the house with a garden, 2.4 kids and old age bickering. saddens me so much, I get upset and disappointed with myself. 

I am so open right now, so sensitive and vulnerable and one the one hand, I love more - it's overwhelming, it's flooding my soul and it's beautiful. At the same time, anything can hurt me and the hurt feeds my anger and resentment - at other people's happiness, at life that for some goes on and I recognise this as petty and it saddens me so much, I get upset and disappointed with myself. Thankfully, it never prevails. 

I have so many people around me - old and new, close and far away, friends and near strangers who have and are showing me such tremendous love, consideration and listen to me, share with me; they are there, selflessly being around me and I know it's not easy, it's uncomfortable, fuzzy, painful and heavy. But they're still here, some for the second time around, better at talking and being with me and fully aware of times to come, bracing themselves and me. I can't find the words to say Thank You, they don't need them either, but it frustrates me - either they haven't been invented or this is a a pure case of less is more. So I keep saying the same ones over and over again - Thank you, Thank you, Thank you. I feel humbled, grateful, fortunate, I feel loved. There is a community that comes together and it feels good to be part of it, it feels less strenuous although, sometimes the collective pain of the shared loss becomes heavy. I find the indifference of some people hurts, or at least it makes matters worse, although they are the people I never connected with in the first place, or very little and I would never rely on.  

It's too soon yet to think of the time which follows the intense pain caused by the event, the shock, the waiting for the dreaded closing ceremony...the time to come once life is reinstated for most involved and touched by him. I know that time for me will be emptiness, the kind that can only be filled by that which is missing.

I am talking to him, the same way I talk to my mother and mostly ask them to look after me; I ask him to find a way to come back to me, somehow. As I was struggling to find the right song for his funeral ceremony, one of those veteran caregivers, the one who by choice, by destiny - or whatever name it goes by and by practicality has been through this, day after day the first time around and is still here now, went to Liverpool. She went to the famous Cathedral and inside there was a lit sign saying: I felt you and I knew you loved me. She thought of us - there was little else on her mind then, even though her younger sister was visiting and they had just started to really connect. She took a picture and sent it to me, smiling and thanking him. She was wandering aimlessly through the streets of the city I had fallen in love with just a few month earlier, when she stumbled on a small church - she was drawn there by music, her kind of music, music that reminded her of an amazing night out we had all spent together..he was there, with three gorgeous girls, the envy of the entire pub. She saw a gate, on the gate a large, red heart, on the heart, a lock and on the lock the word Fragile. She froze, as this was the title of one of his favourite songs. The magic started when she realised a song was playing in the background and she heard the words Goodbye Baby, Baby Goodbye. She found the song and called me in a state of euphoria - the words were goodbye baby, I'm stepping out of your world and I know you won't like it, but I must go home..I'm coming to your party and you know I can't stay, but I'll give you a kiss before I go away. The best part of it was deep in your heart you know I'm coming back... For the first time since he died, I felt happy and this was the song I chose. Do people still talk to you when they go? He does ...he knew my mind is in over drive, my soul shattered, my senses hyphened so he made sure he gave the message to someone he could trust to understand it and pass it on to me. She also told me: in the next few days, weeks, months, don't think of what you should do about yourself, with yourself, don't look for anything within you; instead, try to look around you, to listen to people's conversations, to watch and he'll whisper some more. That night, as I laid in bed, calm, alert, i heard a loud I LOVE YOU from the street, followed by muffled speech. For me, this is enough and I don't need reassurance, research or confirmation.