I've been busy around the house. I've cleaned, sorted, and painted. I've hung art. It keeps me busy.
I'm still having problems asking for company and reaching out to people.
I was reading something about how we as a society have made grief something to be hidden away, that it's not something we want to look at.
But that's not it. It's that it was *deliberately* shamed. That someone I loved and trusted said that it's been three days since my dad died and to shut up. No one wants to hear it. And the thing about that kind of thing is that it echoes in your head, over and over. It's not just said once - it's there whispering in your ear time and again. So I really try not to say anything, or say that I'm broken and hurting or just lonely.
I haven't cried. Not once. I still can't. I think the above is some of it... That it's been so ingrained in me that no one wants to hear it, and that I need to shut the fuck up and get over it, or at least stop talking about it, that I can't let go enough. That, and there's always been something to do. There were too many things to do, and I had to do them. And by the time I could break, it was already a part of me. It's not something I can set down anymore. It's part of me.
And, I guess, in a way, it's been a part of me for months. I accepted in January that if Howard wanted to come home and not have the BKA, that I'd be bringing him home to die. And I did what I had to: I said, "Okay. Then that's what we'll do." Because that's my job.
And now my job is going through everything, sorting it, getting it ready to sell... A bit done every week, and it's a lot of work, but it's getting there. One step at a time.