The second year without my Behr has been in full swing for a few months now. I’m doing my darnedest to not focus on those kind of anniversaries. The not happy ones. I don’t get why friends of mine post things on Facebook about how it’s been x amount of time since their 70 year old mum or 98 year old pappy passed away. WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU RECOGNIZING this day, the day they passed away, as a part of their life. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Stop it! Fuck that day.

I digress.

We were told (we being those in my grief group) that the second year is a bitch. The shock waves have died down, the new routine has been established – although not embraced – and most people know what happened, so the constant re-explaining that you lost someone to suicide has more or less passed. The second year generally is an end to the paperwork side of death (although I still have lawyers bills trickling in). Envelopes are sealed, and the mail with their name on it becomes less frequent.
It still sucks.
It really sinks in.
They are not. Coming. Back.
You are alone.

I have been a widow for over a year yet still wear my rings on most days, and wear his ring on a chain around my neck. I still see older gentlemen and think “John would be better looking than him at that age. His smile was better”. I still have sighs and near tears when I stroll through a department store and see the men’s clothing department.
I witnessed a marriage proposal at the finish line of a race and although it was sweet, I was jealous, angry, sad and to an extent, anxious.

I tear up at the finish of every race I do, and miss him every time I go out on my own to run in the woods. The trails we used to walk together.
I yell at him more these days. I just ask him why? I tell him we could have made it through this.
I’m trying not to be angry at the events and people that started John’s path into darkness, but the reality of being a widow in my 40s when there is no world war, I’m in a 1st wold, peaceful country not saturated in violence, and when he left by his own hand, well, that sucks. I do get angry. These were supposed to be our best days. I’ve been robbed.
He was wronged by so many.

I don’t know where I’m going with this entry. I’m just at a loss on how to move forward. I’m stalled with a wing low.
I’ll go to group therapy, I’ll keep dancing, running, travelling, playing music, hopefully learning Spanish… maybe I’ll find more things to do.

I just had to put the words down about this as a starting point in an attempt to keep healing. I needed to acknowledge that this journey of healing has come to a stop. I need to give it a break.
I guess like in running, You can plateau in a level of grief for a while. I’ve hit a wall. Not the runners wall, but an emotional one. They warned us about this, but no one wanted to hear that your second year sucks more.

I need a hot bath, some cat cuddles, a good book and the crackle of a fireplace. Listening to our wedding song probably isn’t helping, but I’ll be ok, I’m just not as ok as I once thought I’d be at this stage.
If you’re grieving a loss with me, be prepared for set backs.
Loosen up the shoes and maybe slow the pace. Cry some more.

Gotta run.