It's been 13 months. My wife Carla died June 12, 2016. Sunday is her birthday but she's dead so she's not getting any older. I am 47 and I get older every year, but Carla will always be 56. If I ever hear anyone complain about turning 60, I want to punch them.
I was doing reasonably well. In fact, I'm much better now than I was at the 3, 6, or 9 month mark. But I'm not all better. People say I'm doing "a great job". They mean I'm expressing my feelings and not in denial or escapism. I articulate my feelings and I look for support. Better than not doing those things. I know. But Carla is still dead. I keep doing the right things and she keeps being dead.
I sometimes feel hopeful and optimistic about rebuilding my life. I am strong! I am resilient! I'm young and healthy and surrounded by love and support! But I'm exhausted. Today, I do not want a new life. I do not want catharsis and wisdom and growth. I want my old life back, and the petty disagreements of working out who does what around the house. My secure little bubble. I really loved my old life and and I wish I could just go back there and stay there forever.