Today it is 3 months since Rick took his own life. Today I have been wrestling with the feeling that Rick is less of a person and more of a memory every day. Right now, I hate that feeling.
I am moving forward every day...
I consider this amount of time. 3 months. I feel like I have been alone forever. Every day, back home alone. Every night, sleeping alone. I long for someone to kiss me. To hug me. To tell me that everything will be okay. I am tired of the loneliness. And then in the same breath, I feel like it was last week that I came home to a suicide note. How could 3 months possibly have passed? Wasn't Rick just here?
The concept of time is still strange to me. I don't try to understand it.
I swirl around in this timeless Grief Zone, feeling every emotion possible. Sorrow. Hope. Pain. Joy. Anger. Love. Loneliness. Peace.
I feel sore all over, like I ran 100 miles and then lifted weights. Grief is hard work. I am tired.
I feel like Jimmy Stewart in The Spirit of St. Louis, making a 33 hour transatlantic flight. I can't keep my eyes open. I can't find enough things to distract me. I can't go back, but moving forward is so difficult. I know it's all possible, but it feels so unreachable and tiring at times.
I think about 3 months of this. And when I imagine 3 months more of this, I cringe. I shake my head. I hang my head. I cry. It is hard to keep my eyes open.
On days like today, when time is marked by a date that sticks out like a painful spike, I remember the end of The Spirit of St Louis - exhausted and spent, barely achieving what seemed impossible, Jimmy Stewart (as Lindbergh) reaches land and is met with crowds of cheering people who believed in him.
When I feel like I can't keep going, I remember the end of the movie. I'll get there. I'll make it. This grief is my 33 hour flight alone without rest. Through uncharted air currents. Through fear and loneliness. I'll get there. I'll make it. Thank you for cheering me on.