"Dont make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

Last night, I dreamed Chris proposed to me again, and that we were going to be married. I think I may have had that dream once before since he died. As usual, I felt my entire chest cavity fill to capacity with love, goodness and emotion for which there are no words, just as it did during the time we shared.

I awoke feeling calm, like everything is okay, but even so, I also had to swallow my tears on the bus to Harvard Square.

Lately, I have been prone to grief-meltdowns during the time I spend alone, which is most often at night. I’m still not certain what causes the constant ebb and flow of despair at such a late stage in the game. I only know that my grief is never really gone. The sadness and anger go on hiatus, and consistent cheer and happiness stay for extended visits, but I don’t believe grief ever leaves for good.

While trying to understand what grief feels like for me, one of my friends likened my state to that of a multiple personality disorder or possibly to a “Jekyll and Hyde” story. I corrected her, stating that what little I know about schizophrenia seems more accurate, even though I don’t suffer from the disorder. I, myself, feel like the portrayed character of John Nash in the movie, "A Beautiful Mind." Grief lives alongside me, like the people in his dillusions that he, ultimately chose to ignore. Most of the time, I'm able to ignore my grief and the flashes of images from my experience that try to haunt me. I'm not always effectively able to, though, so I end up collapsing under their weight, like an accused witch being pressed to death.

"You're sad! Admit it!"
"No! I'm not! I'm fine!"
"Admit that you're grief-stricken!"
"No!"
"Admit to your sins!"
"Okay! I'm sad! I'm still sad!"

But I get nothing for having admitted to my sadness, except a crushing meltdown that either leaves me shaking on the sofa or passed out from sheer exhaustion.

The character, David Banner, from the 70's show, "The Incredible Hulk" (“Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”) is another good analogy. He, like I, spent his days searching for the scientific answers and the antidote that will end his transformations into the beast he becomes and allow him to return to a normal life.

I don’t feel like two different people. Instead, I feel like a person who is constantly sitting, standing and/or walking next to a black storm-cloud filled with what happened. The cloud, pregnant with images, memories, despair and un-granted wishes floats next to me. My course of action has been to try to ignore its presence and keep on moving.

Anyone who has experienced soreness in a muscle or an extremity and kept touching or moving the injured body part to see if the pain was still there, can understand how I can end up, repeatedly, floating into the cloud and into the pain.

This latest onset of repeat-grief is particularly menacing. As I have mentioned before, I may have ended my therapy in haste. I don’t want to return to Clay. His job is one well done.

I may begin to try to work with a woman psychologist I have found who specializes in loss, cognition and behavior, and hypnosis. I have never talked with a professional whose specialty has been grief. Every time I found those credentials in someone, I was told I was too far out in my grief process or not far out enough. I was even told by a grief-counselor I met with (she also lost her husband many years earlier – seemed a perfect match for my plight) that I could expect to receive some literature from her in the mail and that she would call me to set up another appointment. She did neither. I’m not sure of the reason(s), but she never contacted me.

Still, every ounce of help I have received has made a difference for the better. I don’t pretend that my situation is an easy one to help. I give kudos to any therapist who attempts to lend an ear.

So, I suppose I’ll make the phone call and begin, once again, to tell my story. I need to tell my story, repeatedly. There is healing in the telling.

And if healing is my goal, then I suppose I ought to begin retelling.