The permanence of death is a difficult concept for my heart to grasp. I know Ian’s gone. I know he’ll never be back. But my heart… my heart still wants to see him. My heart still wants to talk to him. My heart still hopes to hug him. Even though I know it’s not possible, it still WANTS.
I think that’s the worst thing about death in general. Its finality. Its utter lack of flexibility. You cannot bargain a visit, or a stay, or anything. It is relentless, unforgiving, unmoving.
I am doing well, and things are going well. But, good gods, do I want to talk to him. I want to commiserate. I want to laugh and whine and make fun of myself. I want to sing with him again. I want to sit around watching The Last Waltz and agree for the billionth time that Levon is the best ever.
You have this idea (at least I did.. do?) that the pain will lessen. That you’ll find something or someone else… that it will just get easier. Almost a year and a half out, I’m not seeing it. I’m not feeling it.
This still SUCKS. This is still terrible and painful and unthinkable. I’m used to it, so I cry a lot less. Once every other week or even more. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt just as badly. It just means I’ve gotten used to the hurt, and can’t keep crying at the level I was a year ago. Instead, I take a deep breath, think to myself, “I miss you, Jerkface,” and carry on with whatever I was doing, or whatever comes next. I still feel the melon-baller taking a chunk out of my heart, but I can’t cry about it anymore. Not often, at least.
This is my new normal. I can and do find joy in things. I can and do look forward to things. But damned if I don’t still miss him just as much all throughout.
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