I need to write.

Every day it gets easier. Every day it gets harder. I’m slogging through the days, some seem normal, others seem like a surreal half-life.

Grief is like a fog. It clouds you. It comforts you. It brings you to your knees at moments so benign you had no warning.

I thought I turned a corner. Since my father died I have gone from crying all day, to having zero tears left in me, to crying once again. I went weeks without tearing up. Two, maybe three. Almost as if I was refusing to acknowledge the reality of it all, refusing to let it control me.

I guess I’m in the denial stage. If we’re keeping track. Is anger next? I’m not angry yet. I’m too damn sad to be angry. Just when I thought I could simply go back to life, grief reminded me and sat me back down on the couch. Not yet, dear. Not yet.

Next week will mark two months. Two entire months without my father. Countless skating lessons for my daughter that he would have loved. Hundreds of conversations with my son, trading wit and barbs that he would have laughed at. Missed phone calls from me, every day after dropping off my kids at school, that we could have used to talk and talk and talk. I want to talk about the election with him. I want to talk about the Cubs going to the World Series with him. I want to make the eggplant parmesan he loved and make up the guest room, with special stuffed animals and signs from the kids so he can come stay, like he was supposed to.

I almost feel numb and breathless thinking of what should have been. I don’t know how I am supposed to act. Should I be moving on now? Should I be able to do more than sit and think? I can barely put on my clothes let alone move on. If I could stay in my bed all day, I would. Getting moving is challenging. A chore. In fact, everything is a chore.

Life feels broken. Certainly not the same. I almost feel guilty enjoying life. We took the kids to Disney on Friday and when I found myself so thankful and happy for my wonderful family I immediately felt guilty that I was enjoying myself. I assume this feeling will fade as time goes on, but right now it’s like I’m in a limbo of sorts, just trying to find my footing.

In the weeks since, so many people have offered their condolences. Helped pay to replace my bracelet that holds his ashes. Reached out to see how I was doing and to check up on me. For these kind gestures I am eternally grateful. Family, even extended family, has been so amazing I again feel guilty. Should I suffer more? Less? See how haywire my thinking is?

I just needed to write tonight.


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