38

Huh. Next week will be 39 weeks, and exactly 9 months.

Sometimes, when I’m alone at home, I just stand there talking to Matt. What I’m really doing is talking to myself, and the topic usually turns to how unfair it is that I can never talk to Matt again. I miss his perspectives, insights, laughter, support, love. I miss letting down my guard and being able to be completely open with him. I miss being able to expect him to microwave me soup and run me a bath when I’m feeling sick. I miss talking to him, and being in the same room without talking.

Sometimes, it’s so hard to focus on the good things that are still part of my life. There are a TON of good things still in my life, and good things that are developing, and good things yet to come (I hope). I try to be positive, and a lot of the time it isn’t even that much of a struggle (but sometimes it is).

I enjoyed the holidays last year so, so much. Now that I know more of the context surrounding them (for Matt), I think Matt might have given me those last few months as a gift – so that I wouldn’t have to deal with widowhood in the midst of Christmas. It’s speculation, but plausible and maybe even likely. I’m not looking forward to the holidays this year though. My 30th birthday is in two weeks, and I don’t even give a damn.

Sometimes – a lot of the time – I have to force myself to keep caring, or at least to keep acting like I care. I suppose that I’ve had to do this several times throughout my life, but it’s been pretty consistent over the last 9 months.

I should stop waiting for something to happen. I should start making things happen.

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2 thoughts on “38

  1. Yeah, fuck the holidays, if they need to be fucked. Drive to the beach, or NYC, or Mammoth Caves. Take watercolors and rent a cabin in the mountains. Of course, if that would be more lonely than doing the holidays, then do them. Point is, I second pezzazz’s comment…

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