Sofa, so good.

I slept on my living room couch last night, which is something I had always done in my childhood whenever the common cold came calling. My mother and father’s bedroom was right off the living room, so if I cried in the middle of the night, they could hear me and come to comfort me with cold medicine and kind, loving words. I suppose the symbolism has lasted over the years, so whenever I’m feeling sad, I have a tendency to grab my pillow and blankets and head for the sofa, where I can still feel remnants of the safety that awaited me back then.

The thought didn’t dawn on me until now, but yesterday was my first birthday spent with another man since Chris died. When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t figure out why I felt so much anxiety and sadness. I took half of an Ativan, hoping to alleviate some of the heaviness in my heart, and I did for a while. I even went out to have lunch with two friends. I did some grocery shopping and then I was going to call Jonathan, but instead, I burst into tears. That’s when everything became clear to me.

I have a feeling I’m going to be experiencing “firsts” for a long, long time. I’m adjusting to a new life, learning to accept my tragedy and the fact that I did everything I could possibly do to help Chris, to make him comfortable and to take care of him while he was sick. I did.

Grief has always had a way with sneaking up on me when I’m not expecting it. I was supposed to call Jonathan after lunch, and I tried, but he didn’t answer his phone. Now that I have melted down, and recovered, and no longer sound like Rudolph after his father pushed the mud onto his nose, I think I can try again. Maybe we can just be together for a while.