Deadsy McGee

For the most part, I’m happy all day at work. Being around people definitely keeps my mind busy, but then again, being around people is one of my favorite things in the world. I really enjoy the companionship.

Every day, I become progressively sad as the work day ends and on my trip home. I become all too aware of the lonliness of my life without Chris in it. I wouldn’t say I’m lonely. I would say I’m lonely for Chris. It’s not like the presence of another person can fill that void.

My friends can distract my mind from the sadness and lonliness quite effectively. All we do is laugh. But inevitably, I end each day alone, where I once ended each day with my husband snuggled up against me in our bed. I loved trusting that no matter what we did each day or where we went, at the end of the day, he was right there beside me.

My life is different, now. I can work out four times a week because Chris isn’t home waiting for me. When he was home, I couldn’t wait to get there and be with him. In fact we had to work on me going or staying out once in a while so he could have some alone time. I was happy to work it out with him. I wanted him to have everything he needed. Still, it’s tough to be out when every fiber of your being is being pulled toward the other half of your heart. I did it though. I did it out of love. Chris appreciated it and loved me for it.

I love him. I’m in love with him and I’m no longer going to try not to be. I’m in love with Chris Burrage and that’s exactly how I’m going to stay until I feel that I can move on. Denying it, fighting it only increases my sadness.

One thing Chris always did was name people based on what they were doing, like “Laughsy McGee” if someone was laughing or “Spitsy McGee” if a jogger hucked a clam on his way past us. It was endearing. I began to do it myself. Another of my favorite things in the world is how two people in a relationship begin to use each other’s catch phrases and styles. I loved that we became each other, personality-wise.

The other day, I referred to Chris as “Deadsy McGee.” I know he would have appreciated that and I’m sure that wherever he is now, he stopped, chuckled and said, “Oh no, Shneed. Oh God, No.”

I miss him more than I ever knew I could miss a person. I feel his absense through and through. I miss his hug and his wit.

I miss our life together.

A Trip

It’s not like I plan to do anything, but when I begin to unpack and clean my bedroom and I set my glass of wine down on the vanity next to the steak knife I was using to cut open boxes earlier in the week, I freeze. Glancing at a glass of wine next to a knife only moments after I have sat sobbing uncontrollably and unconsolably draped over a box of pictures of Chris, is a sobering experience.

Blood-Red Wine and Pain
Red wine, like blood, shimmering in the days last glimmers of sunlight
The silver blade glimmering, shimmering
Just like the blood of the fruit beside it
Can I see past the blood and the blade
And look toward the sunlight?
The sunlight gradually becoming evening
Then night?
Black as my heart of glass
Filled with the blood of the fruit
Pumping blood-wine into my heart of glass
Keep it coming
Flowing into my heart and glowing like the vanishing sun
Just keep it coming
The light of a new morning waits just around the clock
Hold on, Shneed, hold on.

Pain is the univited guest to this little cocktail party
Needling me in between every last laugh
Pain, laughter, pain, laughter pain, laughter

p a i n

I forced myself to break the freeze this weekend and unpack and set up my bedroom and begin to assemble my computer desk. Grief is a powerful emotion. It can stop elephants in their tracks. It can stop me.

I go to some pretty dark places on a regular basis these days. But I also go to some pretty light places. The light outweigh the dark in numbers but man, the dark sure outweigh the light in weight.

Shneed

Holding onto Life, Holding onto Love

The trauma I experienced alongside Chris’ was the most horrifying and caused me to feel the most crushing sadness and panic I have ever felt in my entire life. Last night, I dreamed about that crushing sadness and panic.

Chris and I were at a family gathering at either a house or a hotel which was right on the beach. He didn’t look good. He was very thin and his eyes were very sad and sunken in. He was sweating. I noticed these things in the dream but, just as in real life when were actually coping with his cancer, I was too afraid to ask him how he felt. Again, as in real life, it was as though saying any of it out loud is what would make it real.

Part way through this dream-party, Chris looked at me with those sad, hollow, beaten eyes and told me he needed to go to the hospital. He told me he was dizzy. My heart filled with panic because “dizzy” was one of the words that meant that his cancer had come back.

November 19th, 2003, feels like a lifetime ago. Chris and I sat in the examination room, he on the table and I on a chair. The doctor asked him a list of questions: “Are you tired? Are you dizzy? Have you had any shortness of breath? Have you felt any pain? Have you been sweating?” Chris’ answer to every single question was “No.”

How blissful it was back in the days of my naivety. Although I didn’t know it at the time, naivety was a wonderful, worry-free party. Because he hadn’t experienced any of the symptoms the doctor mentioned, I became certain that Chris did not have cancer. What a fool I was.

Right before diagnosis #2, Chris was tired, dizzy, short of breath, in pain and sweating and this time I also thought it was not cancer.

Maybe it has always been wishful thinking on my part.

Chris knew this time. I know he knew. He was keeping it from me and Bonnie and I believe he was frightened. By the time they told us they were sending him home “to die” which is not the way they put it, I think he wanted to die rather than deal with the out-of-control, chemo-infected chaos his life had become. I’d want to die, too, if I was the star of that macabre drama.

Why do we hold onto life the way we do? What causes a person to willingly subject him/herself to hours and hours and days and months and years of poisonous injections when there is no guarantee that life will prevail? Love would be my reason. I love many people unconditionally and I would subject myself to a lot of pain if I thought there was even a sliver of a chance that I could stay with them a while longer. Chris did that for all of us and for himself.

In this uncertain, ever-changing, enigmatic world we live in, what the hell else ever matters besides love?

Shneed

I'm a Weaner

Paxil, this. Paxil that. Paxil, Paxil, Paxil.

Giving Paxil the “axe”-il, as I so cleverly put it (if I do say so myself) turned out to be a poor choice (Sometimes I make poor choices.) which sent me into a downward spiral straight into withdrawal. Quitting Paxil cold-turkey should NOT be done, unless constant dizziness, extreme fatigue, irritability, short tempered outbursts, hot flashes, strange dreams and a basic lack of the ability to organize thought sounds appealing.

Add to all of those side effects, a daily eight-hour shift of supporting three senior-level managers who dole out an almost daily dose of attitude and condescending behavior peppered with occasional helplessness. All this in a very busy technological department filled with egos and too much testosterone (and I’m not counting my own). Don’t get me wrong. I actually genuinely like all three of my bosses. They can’t help that they were born males. Surreal is what this past week has been. Surreal and filled with a nightly crushing grief-breakdown. I am certainly exhausted, to say the least.

Solution? I came home and dropped half a Paxil. Weaning is key, here. It’s actually fun to say. Go ahead. Say it. Weaning is key. I’m back on the pill and I’m already feeling better. Drug dependency really pisses me off.

I saw my new social worker for the first time yesterday. He’s very nice and very good at what he does. That’s a switch from my former therapist.

I’m blaming it on Paxil-withdrawal, but I could barely choke back my tears walking from Central Square to his office. Though I bought them as a fashion statement, my sunglasses come in handy when I need to hide my stupid teared-up eyes from the general public. I’m still working on stifling the hyperventilation.

All things considered, I’m still doing well...the “new” well, that is. My breakdowns since I moved into my new apartment, however, have become very powerful and I find that it suits me best to just fall onto my bed or my couch and sometimes even sink to the floor and dive right into them. I refuse to take a passive stance with my crying fits. I make a choice, every time, to go with them willingly. They do NOT overpower me. I believe it is absolutely necessary to feel every second of them in order to continue to move through my grief.

I still can’t listen to Ellis Paul. I still can’t read a novel. I still have trouble spending money on myself. I still can’t believe my husband got cancer and died. I still, sometimes, feel like a 52-year-old woman wearing a flowered house coat. I still fear that it may be too late for me to find love again...and I still feel guilty about the possibility of it not being too late. The term “letting go” has no meaning to me. When I think about it, I’m stumped. I know I have said this before, but the thought of letting go produces the same feeling in me as the feeling I get when I try to look at the back of my own head. I do not comprehend it.

Today, a co-worker said to me, “You’re never going to get over it, you know. It will ALWAYS be with you.” It’s funny. She meant nothing but kindness, concern and nurturing, but man that’s a tough sentence have handed down. A L W A Y S. First of all, that’s a very painful word now. There IS no “always.” It’s a fallacy. It doesn’t exist. You love someone as long as your love lasts and that’s basically the end of the story. I suppose it’s the beginning of another story, though. I just have to learn how to want a new story, because I still want my old one.

A Warm Chill in the Air

When I began looking for apartments, back in June, I was aware that I had begun my search too early. I wasn’t leaving my previous aparment until August 1st and all of the apartments I was calling about were being rented for July 1st, or in some cases, June 15th. Still, I couldn’t help looking and became obsessed with the Craigslist apartment listings.

I was going to stay in Davis Square. That is the one thing of which I was certain. I had entertained the idea of moving to North Cambridge, as well. Porter Square is a very lovely part of town.

Here and there, I thought ever-so-briefly about Malden but only because I was thinking that it would be a return to my roots, back to the beginning, to a time before I even knew what boys were. I really never thought I would end up moving there, but I opened up my apartment search anyway.

I sat at my desk and ran search after search for hours each day. I would search, find nothing, and search again ten minutes later even though I knew that nothing new would turn up. During one of those “ten-minute” obsessive apartment searches and quite on a whim, I searched Malden and an apartment listing that hadn’t been there ten minutes before, was suddenly there, sporting a photo of the most beautiful kitchen I had ever seen. From the moment I saw that picture, I knew I had to live there. I knew that apartment had to be mine.

I called the number in the ad and spoke to the owner of the house. She asked why I was moving and I told her that I had lost my husband in January and that I felt it was time for me to move out of the apartment we shared together. Although she had never met me, she agreed.

We talked more about the apartment. This woman had such a nice, warm feel about her. I liked her instantly. I told her that I was interested in seeing the place and then voiced my worry that she was probably looking to rent it for July. Without missing a beat, she told me that wasn’t necessarily true and that she would much rather have the right person move in. My heart soared.

A few days later I came to see the place and fell lin love with it, filled out an application and waited for her to check all of my references. She called me a few days later and after we spoke a bit, she said to come by to sign the lease. I was elated.

When I got there, we sat in the yard at a picnic table. She and her husband went over the lease with me. She mentioned that she had not yet gotten in touch with my bank to verify my accounts and then said, “I don’t care though. I want you.” We seemed to bond instantly as though we had known each other already. She poured me a glass of wine and we toasted my signing of the lease. From the moment I met this couple, I felt very welcome and very protected. Before I even knew what was happening, I had moved to Malden.

During that week, I could not help feeling as though I had been guided to that particular apartment. It all happened so fast and so neatly that I really believed that Chris had a hand in leading me there. This apartment has everything I could ever want, but I wasn’t able to think clearly enough at the time to really search for what I needed. Still, I found it. How did that happen?
Despite my comfort here, there is always an adjustment period when getting used to living in someone else’s home. For the past few days, I have found myself wondering if my landlord would or has ever come into my apartment when I’m not home. Something happened that made me wonder. I then began to wonder how I would ever find out if that ever happened.

Yesterday morning, Chris’ aunt sent me an e-mail which, among other things, contained the following:

"Question:  is your landlord's name XXXXX?  If so, I am friends with someone who lived in your apartment once upon a time."

Isn’t that chilling? What are the chances of THAT happening? There’s my way of finding out what type of people XXXXX and his wife are.

So, in short, Chris’ aunt has a friend who lived in the very apartment I feel I was guided toward by Chris.

I believe he is around me, protecting me. I believe again.

In Dreams

The other night, I had a grief-induced breakdown so violent that I thought I was going to lose my fucking mind. I did lose my fucking mind. It came back, though. It does that.

I began to disbelieve what I have always believed before, which is that the spirits of our loved ones are around us, helping us, guiding us and loving us eternally. when I realized I had begun to lose faith in that, I felt like I lost my grip on everything.That thought was too much for me to bear. To quiet myself and my mind, I took an Ativan and lay there quivering until I fell asleep. My brain wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop imagining Chris next to me, stoking my back and my hair and just being next to me. Eventually I fell asleep.

I awoke the next morning with the slightest memory of my dream. The entire dream was enormously long, but I could only remember a few seconds of it.

There are two types of dreams; the kind you see through your own eyes and the kind you see yourself in. I experienced this dream through my own eyes.

Although I never saw his face, Chris was standing in front of me. I knew because I recognized his dirty white T-shirt. That’s the way Chris dressed. He never bleached his whites or separated them from his darks. His “white” T-shirts always had a greyish hue. I digress.

He was standing so close that I could only see him from his belt to his neck. I raised my arms, like I always used to do, and wrapped them around his neck and hugged him and he hugged and held me. I could smell his Speed Stick. I just held him until I woke up. I didn’t think anything of the dream. I just noticed that I felt much, much better when I woke up. Throughout the rest of the day, I kept almost remembering other parts of my dream, but they never materialized and there were gone in a millisecond. I felt a bewildered, though mild sense of amnesia each time. I guess I wasnt’ supposed to remember that dream.

The following evening, I had a pretty mild breakdown, nothing to write about. Once again, I fell asleep but without the aid of Ativan this time. I dreamed again. Again, what I recall of my dream is sketchy. I only remember that “we” were in a show. I think the “we” was my friends, although I can’t remember who. I think my brother was there and Chris was definitely there, too. We were running up a small cobble-stoned street during the wee hours of the night toward the only store that was open, laughing the entire way. The store clerk let us in and “we” sang for him. I remember the song was four-part harmony and I remember being able to hear and pick out Chris’ bass line. My vocal coach may have been the director. I’m not sure. The laughter is what really stood out in my memory. I awoke feeling even better than the morning before.

Later in the day, I began, once again, to believe. I feel as though Chris came to me through my dream and held me, like I wish he could every day. I can still feel his hug and see his dirty T-shirt. I truly felt held for the first time since the last time he really held me. And laughing with him, again, was wonderful. It’s like he knew that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and he came and helf me to make me feel better.

Givng Paxil the "Axe"-il

Grief.

I don't want him to be dead. I really want him here with me. This is hard. It's coming up on eight months since Chris died. I don't want that to be true.

I realized tonight that I have been living for the both of us. I'm tired. Everything I see, I formulate what Chris' reaction would have been. I imagine what he might have laughed at. I create conversations we might have had. I can't do that anymore. I have to stop. He's not here. He's not coming back. He's not going to have not experienced cancer. He's never going to not have been bald...or in so much pain that he couldn't walk.

I'm going to short out my keyboard in a minute if I don't stop dropping my tears on it.

It's time to stop taking anti-depressants. I'm just not going to anymore. I'm aware that I'm going to feel like crap. It's okay. it's time. What's not okay is for me to continue to consider what any more of Chris' thoughts might have been or how much he might have accomplished. Not okay. I'm too tired to keep him alive. I have to let go. He's gone. He's just gone.

By doze id duffed. Nothing a few Kleenex's won't cure.

The day we met is still so clear in my mind's eye.

I'm.......so.......tired.

Supposedly, Paxil is a drug that's supposed to be stopped gradually. I'm ready to stop NOW, though, so I'm trying it cold-turkey. I think there's still a part of me that feels deserving of punishment because I lived and he didn't Survivors guilt is common in situations like mine.

I'm going to begin seeing a new therapist on Thursday. I'm finished with my old one. I want a man's perspective.

Autumn's coming and I so wanted to walk with Creej and get coffee with him and sit, quietly with him and just live our separeate lives, together, with each other. We were so good at it.

I'm sad. Despite the fact that the rest of my life is filled with friends that I love, family that I love and activities that fill me with euphoria on a daily basis.

I just have to try to let go, now. I have to let go.

It's possible that there IS no other world where souls live on and watch over us. It's possible that he's not guiding me and that he can't see me and that his entire existence simply ceased.

If this is any indication of what the next few months are going to be like, I'm going to need a bigger box of tissues.

Shneed.

Badditude Adjustment and Last Night

My poor boss had the misfortune of being thrust into the role of my attitudinal punching bag today. My tongue was sharp, my patience worn to a nub and my ability to control my disposition nonexistent. Just as if I had wailed on a bag, though, all that happened was that I hurt my own fist.

My other boss was lucky enough to have to witness me complain for the past two days about insignificant trivial matters, the poor guy.

Both of these pictures of myself that I paint are entirely uncharacteristic of me. I can honestly say that I am pleasant, approachable and helpful nearly 97% of the time. I pride myself on those qualities. My job is to help my bosses and make their days run as smoothly as possible and I am quite good at it.

The worst part of my loss of control over myself is that I was aware it was happening and frustrated that it was happening, yet I was not able to stop being negative. Negativity is a quality that most people, and I’m going to place myself on the top of that list, find to be annoying as hell.

Lately I have been realizing, or imagining, that the people in my daily life must think that I either am, or should be over it by now. I have no basis for this assumption, other than my own worry. I can’t have everyone that I see for eight hours a day, five days a week thinking that I’m fine. That thought just makes me feel as though I have to begin pretending and covering up and supressing...and being ashamed of myself. I won’t be ashamed of myself. What I’m going through and what I have been through are going to take as much time as they take to heal.

I felt awful that I was being defensive and argumentative toward my boss. He was wonderful to me when it all fell apart. He called me at home. Not too many people would have the courage to do that. That phone call comforted me. He’s a good man and I couldn’t continue to be difficult today.

I approached both of them independently and apologized for my attitude, letting them know that my recent move has brought up some issues for me and it’s causing me some anger, which is what has been causing me to display negative behavior. They both understood.

I now know that I killed my badditude by simply being honest. Honesty is the best policy.

I keep forgetting that I don’t give people enough credit for being understanding and compassionate creatures.

Once again, the truth set me free.

----------------------------------------------

Last night was really bad. When I moved in here ten days ago, the first thing I did was unpack my stuff for the kitchen, dining, living room area and set it all up. It really looks perfect as far as I’m concerned. I am in love with this apartment.

Then I stopped. I still have not set up the entire bedroom or the office. Boxes still litter these two rooms. I thought I just wasn’t in the mood to do it at first, but it later became apparent to me that I had become frozen. I had hit a mental wall of sorts. I was unable to unpack anything else. I thought about finishing the job numerous times but every time, I felt an instinctive, deep-seated reluctance to begin. I became aware that the thought of doing anything more, just created panic within me: My heart beat faster.; I felt tired.: I cried inconsolably.

Last night I made a decision to get up, go into the bedroom and begin emptying boxes. I thought it would go smoothly, but instead, I took six of Chris’ Red Sox hats out of a box and proceeded to lose my mind. I held them like I held my teddy bear when I was a small girl and the tears began. I held onto them like I would hold onto him if I had the power to heal, sunk to the floor and purged every last tear from my body. The purging brought me from my feet, to my floor, to the box of tissues in the living room, to my bed and back to my floor where I remained for the ensuing hour and a half until I was too tired and until my eyes were too swollen to see.

I weathered this one without Ativan. It was okay. It hurt, but at least I could feel again when it was over.

That’s the stuff I don’t ever want to have to hide from people. That still happens. I’m not ashamed. I’m just trying to push forward a little bit every single day.

Clawing My Way Out and Up

I’m forcing myself to feel tonight. Since I moved into this apartment, since moving out of the apartment I shared with Chris, I have been running, running, running. I suppose that’s not really a bad thing. I guess it depends on the type of running. I have been running a w a y.

I have been coming home for short spurts and running back out again before I have a chance to think about any of it. There is a reality I am still not able to face. I can feel myself denying so much of it each day. Saying the “d” word and Chris’ name in the same sentence is very scary to me.

In some ways I have been bounced back to the beginning when I first realized that not only didn’t I want to live my life without Chris in it, but that I would also be living alone, something I had counted on never having to do again. As a result, moving into this new place has caused me to flash back to the way I felt when he was first gone. I’m scared a lot. I’m sad a lot. And the fog has returned partially, although not to the same thickness as when I first felt it. I’m finding that my thoughts are cluttered and scattered and if I’m not doing something, I’m unable to sit still and relax. The only time I’m able to be completely grief-free is when I am singing. Singing takes it all away.

I wish I could talk this all over with Chris. He would have known what to say. Knowing somebody as well as I knew him and having him know me as well as he did is my favorite thing in this world.

Today, as I was walking through the Esplanade, I had a very profound thought. I had been listening to my voice lesson on my headphones, formulating my next improvement. Being completely focused on my performance and how to better it, I was not thinking about Chris at all. When I finally removed the headphones and put them into my bag, I returned to the here and now. I thought of Chris and smiled. Then I thought, “This is how it will happen. It’s okay to think of him less, in fact it’s probably healthy. As I move forward, I’ll probably think of him less, but when I do think of him, I’ll smile. That’s better than thinking about him all the time and crying. That’s the way to honor him.”

I’m forcing myself to feel tonight. That means I’m forcing myself to sit on the sofa quietly, not moving, not speaking, no TV, no radio. It means I’m forcing myself to be with myself, to feel the solitude, to b r e a t h e and to entertain the idea of getting used to...

I still can’t say it.

Shneed

New Pajamas or A Rainy Ride Home

Something came over me. In the midst of the song, in the midst of the celebration of music, in the midst of the silliness a cloak of darkness fell on me and I had to leave.

The open mike was fun. Carol came with me and Lori and Marsha were there. That’s three of my favorite people in one place at the same time. It was a blast. I ordered wine and water, both because I’m a singer and I need them. Man, I love to sing. Carol insisted that I sing my two new songs. I complied.

Carol left before me. I suppose I should have gone, too, but I wanted to stay. I walked her to her car to prove that I was fine on my own on the way back, even though I shuttered when those two men walked by me. I see things so strangely now. If they’re not dangerous, I’ll get back to the open mike. If they are dangerous, I’ll go to Chris. There isn’t a hell of a lot of pre-fear these days. I suppose that if something horrible were to happen, I would be scared out of my wits, but sometimes I get so fate-tempting. The anger makes me feel destructive.

I got back to the restaurant just fine, but began to grow increasingly sad. Maybe it was the music, or the new pajamas I bought today. I think that was it. They are really quite adorable and Chris would have loved them. Styled like men’s pajamas, except for their light pink hue and satin appearance, he would have loved me in them. God, listen to me. He loved me with or without new pajamas. Did I mention that I had a glass and a half of wine on an empty stomach? That’s drunk for me.

I got into my car and the tears came almost immediately. I cried all the way home, once again squinting through my tears to see the traffic signals and the lines in the streets. I imagined myself spending the night in the slammer sobering up. How awful would that have been? I made it home, though. Home feels so safe,now. I feel cloaked in protection here. It took me twenty minutes to drive home and I bawled the entire time. I have stopped, though.

I’m hungry. It’s never a good idea to eat at this ungodly hour. I want to, though. I think I may have to.

I miss him. Especially tonight. I want him here but he'll never see this place. I’m very angry.

I’m going to be taking boxing from a former pro-boxer. I’m very excited about it. If for no other reason, to beat the ever-loving fuck out of a punching bag. I so need to punch and punch and punch until my fists hurt. I’m ready. Bring it on,.

I hope I don’t cry like a little girly-girl there.

I miss you more than ever, Creej.

Shneed

Ativan Junkie

I’m abusing Ativan. I took one just for the fuck of it. I hadn’t even reached despair, yet. I didn’t wait to, either. I just popped it, like a common junkie. Next I’ll be stealing money to support my $20.00 co-pay. Gee. When I put it that way, it doesn’t sound so glamorous anyhmore. I guess I’ll have to stop abusing it now or risk the embarrassment of a $20 quarterly habit.

Seriously, in the midst of my joviality, I’m heavy-hearted tonight. I have been since I moved into this sacred temple of an apartment. There is peace here. Maybe it will find it’s way into my soul.

Raw

In so many ways, this is just the beginning of my healing phase.

Tonight is the first night I’m spending in my new apartment. I thought I was okay. I am okay, essentially, but because I have done nothing but run around like a mad woman packing, unpacking, shopping and working, I haven’t had time to think. This is the first moment that I have simply sat quietly and it only took me a minute to burst into tears. I’m so grief stricken.

Chris would have loved this place. He would have spent his mornings in the loft, reading his Red Sox news. I want him here with me so badly that it hurts just to be.

Of course I swallowed an Ativan. I can’t do it tonight. I’m really scared. I’m scared to sit and too scared to sleep. I’m horrified of Chris’ absence. I need him so much that my body is aching. This isn’t fair.

I want to meet him again. I just want him to walk to the bottom of the stairs and come out his front door and smile the way he smiled at me that first night I picked him up. I remember standing on his front porch before he came downstairs thinking that I couldn’t remember what he looked like. When he came to the door and smiled, my first impression was, “What a great smile.” I lived to see that smile. I lived to drive because he didn’t like to. I lived to walk to a coffee shop and sit on a bench in the park sipping with him. I lived to hear his voice on the other end of the line and to hug him and to talk with him and laugh with him.

We were so good together. He cooked so I drove. I worked so he washed clothes. We fit together perfectly in absolutely every way. Absolutely every aspect of him accented everything about me and vise versa.

I need him so much tonight. I thought about calling someone just to talk about regular, everyday stuff. That helps me.

My life is good. I have had a horrible event take place, but I refuse to say that life is bad. It’s not. It hurts right now, but it’s still good and there are still things in my life that bring me great joy.