4

As I sit at my desk, it is difficult to focus. I am taking short, shallow breaths- fighting the feeling of crushing weight on my chest.

I am swallowing the lump in my throat and blinking away the sting of tears welling in my eyes, threatening to spill over onto my face and embarrass me.

Sometime in early spring last year, my Survivor’s Outreach Coordinator (a military widow herself) sat in my living room and told me “the second year is the hardest.”

How is that possible? I thought. I’m pregnant, my husband shot himself and if it weren’t for this baby and Luke I don’t know that I’d still be here.

But now I am here, year two- and she was right.

I’ve unwillingly transitioned out of “survival mode” and have begun a new daily routine, except nothing about it is routine because he’s not here.

It’s a cruel reality, but just because your person dies- the world does not stop turning. The sun rises and sets just as it does every day and life carries on. With time, people forget, they have their own lives after all…and just because your world stopped turning doesn’t mean their’s does.  They forget the important dates, to call and ask how you’re doing, to ask what you need help with.

 

Today is my wedding anniversary.

Or rather…it would have been.

Eight years together, four married.

 

This time last year people called, texted, sent messages on Facebook.

They sent cards and flowers with messages of heartfelt sympathy.

 

This year I had to remind people.

I’m not mad…it just further validates the feelings of isolation.

 

Last year I took one month old Gwendolyn to the cemetery to “meet” her daddy, I spent a lot of my day looking at my wedding album, lying in bed and crying.

Today I dropped the kids off and went to work.

I want to go to the cemetery.

I want to look at my wedding album and cry.

I want to unbox my perfectly preserved wedding dress and light it on fire.

 

But instead, as I sit at my desk, it is difficult to focus. I am taking short, shallow breaths- fighting the feeling of crushing weight on my chest.

I am swallowing the lump in my throat and blinking away the sting of tears welling in my eyes, threatening to spill over onto my face and embarrass me.

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: