It was a nickname my late husband gave me.

Yeah, I said it. “My late husband.” That’s the first time I’ve said that to anyone. Today I said it to my new landlord during a phone call. He mentioned that my e-mail was strange and asked me what it meant. Then I said it. And I feel strange and a bit woozy inside.

Taking this new apartment has caused my grief to resurface pretty intensely. I’m not sure why. It’s not like Chris and I ever lived in my current apartment together. He was eight-months-gone by the time I moved. I fear that every move I make, throughout the remainder of my life, is going to feel like I’m stepping on his memory, pushing off of it with my foot, and continuing on into my future. That’s not a very nice feeling.

Sunday night, I completely fell apart. I couldn’t stop crying for two hours. I finally popped an Ativan and sat myself on the sofa in front of my television until it coated my psyche. And I remembered why I like Ativan so much. Uh-oh.

Last night, I began pacing around my butcher block. I couldn’t relax and my stomach was swimming around and around. This time, I took only a half of an Ativan and began the long process of streamlining any possessions of mine I longer want to keep.

In addition to the move, this time of year wreaks havoc in my mind and memories. It’s the time of year we began to suspect that something was wrong. October through January is still quite a melancholy time for me.

I’m moving to the beautiful city of Cambridge, the city I have wanted to live in for most of my adulthood. This move is going to be great. I’m excited.