Tomorrow it will be twelve weeks. Twelve weeks of missing you.
The tears come less frequently now. Maybe that's the body's way of self preservation? I'm not sure why it's so? I know the hurt is still there, the missing you is still there, the disbelief is still there, so why do the tears come less frequently?
But when they come, and they do come, they fall in rivers. I don't think tears are made in the eyes at all. I think tears come from deep inside you, from your gut. They bend you over, causing you to clutch your stomach in agony. I think tears pass through your heart, twisting just a little as they go. I think tears flow up your throat, cutting off your air, causing that deep aching in the back of your throat. And then, when your body is so full that you think you will never breathe again, they spill out of your eyes, your nose, your mouth. They flow with such force that they pull the sobs, the retching, horrible sobs from the pit of your soul so that you think you too might die from the effort of it all.
People seem to fear the tears of someone's grief. At the first catch in your voice, they change the subject (in a way that they think is ever so subtle) trying to get you to smile. I think that the civilians of the grief world believe that if they don't see your tears on the outside, that you must be "okay" (what the hell is "okay" anyway?). But those of us who carry this constant pain, we know that if we can just shed a few tears, it will be like letting the pressure off a too hot radiator. We think that maybe, just maybe we won't explode, spewing hot tears over everyone. Over innocent bystanders.
Loved ones, wonderful, sweet, supportive friends try to keep me busy. Try to make me laugh, get me to have fun (like fun is even remotely in my universe) and I love them for it. I love them so much and I know that they're the ones who have kept me surviving, but I WANT to cry. I want to have an entire day to myself to just cry and cry and cry. I want to order pizza and chocolate and spend the day in my pajamas, watching sad tear jerker chick flicks and cry until I can't cry anymore. I want to cry until I believe that you're really not coming home. I want to cry until I can accept that I won't roll over and find you on your side of the bed. I want to cry until I can pick myself up and go on, to accept that my life will be spent waiting to be with you again. Because right now, my heart still doesn't believe it, Michael.
Baby, I'm still waiting for you to come home. I love you and miss you so much.
I started out writing to Michael on face book and on his email too. For five years we emailed each other everyday and I felt so empty not sending him an email. So now, at night, when I would normally send him an email, I write my blog. I hadn't planned on publishing it, but I thought maybe there was someone who would feel like they weren't so alone knowing that someone understands. Keep writing those emails! It feels like my Sweet Michael can read my words...do you ever feel that way?
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