He’s Everywhere…

I’ve been apathetic about much of my life lately.

Not interested in crafting.

Not interested in exercising.

Not interested in going out.

Not interested in cleaning my house.

Not interested in finishing up the projects around my house.

Not interested in much of anything.

Don’t get me wrong, there are things that make me smile, things that make my heart sing, people who light up my life.

But I’m having problems engaging, having problems pulling out of the fog lately.  It feels like it did closer to the beginning.   Fogged, unclear, brain frazzled.

I look around my house and no matter how much I change, he’s here.  This was HIS house.  The Jeep is HIS.  The van was HIS.  The kitchen was HIS domain.  HIS stuff is in my craft room.  HIS presence is in my bedroom.  He’s everywhere.  He’s even at my job.  The reminders of all that was him… everywhere.

It’s overwhelming… the constant missing him, the constant reminders of him, the constant awareness of the “lack” of him.   The more I change, the more I am aware of how much I have lost.   There’s a hole, a darkness, a blackness that permeates all that is our lives.

We find joy in small moments… a walk, a snuggle, laughing at a movie… but always in the back of my mind is the awareness that he’s. not. here.

I will have to change something… most likely there will be a move coming up in my near future… I have to start fresh, make a life that creates the future of me and my boys together… without their Dad.

Somewhere we can have the memories without the overwhelming presence.  Somewhere we can start fresh.

Mark in Fruitvale

 

I know he’s waiting for me on the other side.  I know he keeps an eye on me now.  I know he’s around… because it hurts so much to be at home.  The reminders are constant, there is no relief from it, no “happy place” where I’m not a widow, where I’m not reminded of all that I lost.

I need to find that.  No matter what that looks like, I need a place I can be where I can grieve when I need to, but enjoy the rest of my life.

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