Still Dead

It is actually May. My husband has been dead for six months, and I am still alive. I am by no means anywhere close to normal, but I'm upright.
I go out to lunch and dinner sometimes. I see my sister and a friend or two sometimes. One of my sons and his fiance live here with me, and I have the dogs and cats. I'm not completely alone, but I might as well be.
I'm just now realizing he isn't coming back. He really isn't coming back. Ever. He's dead as a doornail. Completely dead. He has ceased to be. That is still unbearable, and strikes that awful terror in me every time I think about it.
A lot of folks have just had it with me by now. I should be back to normal. They are. They're busy. They have lives. I can't be calling them crying every day because I miss my husband. I'm still seeing the therapist and I've made plans for the future; travel and that sort of thing, but nothing makes the ache stop. It never stops hurting. Even when I'm having a conversation, part of my brain is over by itself, crying. I don't know how else to put it.
If this is a transformative, positive experience, it is lost on me. If there is some good to come from this, I don't see it.


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