Grief: The Great Yearning — Day 197

During the first horrendous months after the death of my life mate/soul mate/best friend, I was so incredibly lost that sometimes the only way I could deal with the confusion was to write a letter to him in an effort to feel connected. I still have episodes of sadness, but I haven’t experienced that total anguish in a long time. Still, I miss him, yearn to go home to him, worry about him. Although this letter was written two years ago, much of it holds true today.

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Dear J,

It’s been a while since I’ve written, but I’ve been thinking about you. Are you glad you’re dead? You said you were ready to die, to be done with your suffering, yet at the very end you seemed reluctant to go.

Despite all the problems with your restlessness and the disorientation from the drugs, I wasn’t ready for you to leave me. I still am not. Nor do I want to go back to where we were that last year, waiting for you to die. We were both so miserable, but honestly, this is even worse. I can live without you. The problem is, I don’t want to, and I don’t see why I have to.

I want to come home. Please, can I come home? I have a good place to stay, but without you, I feel homeless. Sometimes I watch movies from your collection and imagine you’re watching with me, but that makes me cry because I know you’re not here. Your ashes are, but you’re not.

I broke a cup today, one more thing gone out of the life we shared. Our stuff is going to break, wear out, get used up. I’ll replace some of it, add new things, write new books, and it will dilute what we shared. Is there going to be anything left of “us”? I feel uncomfortable in this new skin, this new life, as if it’s not mine. As if I’m wearing clothes too big and too small all at the same time.

There’s so much I hate about your being gone — hate it for me and hate it for you. It might be easier if I knew you were glad to be dead, but so far you’ve been mum about your situation. Just one more thing to hate — the silence of the grave. (Well, the silence of the funerary urn.)

Adios, compadre. If you get a chance, let me know you’re okay.

***

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5 Responses to “Grief: The Great Yearning — Day 197”

  1. awindowofwisdom Says:

    view him as just being in the next room, your thoughts are heard and you will get signs of things out of place…Butterflies will be sent as another sign. we are eternal and within everything there are hidden blessings and reasons for things, what if this is to create a connection with the divine that you otherwise would not have? My prayers are with you, stay strong look for the signs and never question they are truly for you.

  2. sandy Says:

    Interesting that you write him letters. For the first two years after my brother died, I also wrote him letters. I wonder if a lot of people do that. I thought it was just us (because I wrote stories and he wrote poems).

    • Pat Bertram Says:

      I didn’t realize anyone else wrote letters when I first started writing, but I’ve met a lot of people since then who did it. In fact, many grief counselors recommend it.

  3. Claire Chamberlain Says:

    Hello Pat, I am about to read two months into your loss, it was two months for me on Friday. I found a really grubby T shirt of Michael’s under a chair that he would wear to do the garden and odd jobs in. His smell is all over it. I treasure and hold it to my heart along with his photo at night. I even treasure his smelly socks, its all i have to remind me of him physically apart from photos. I always talk to Michael and pray for signs. I do believe in the afterlife its the only hope i have to cling onto. I will light a candle today and say a prayer for us and our loved ones. Its a lonely painful journey that you cannot comprehend until you experience loss. Much love Claire xxx

    • Pat Bertram Says:

      Claire, we all do whatever we can to keep ourselves grounded. Other people might not understand, but we who have been there, do. Two months — it’s still so new. Cling to whatever you need to. I wrapped his ashes in his unwashed robe, and clung to that. I used his pillows. Wore his shirts. You’re right, no one who has not been there can comprehend the total tsunami of pain that all but drowns us.

      Please stop by occasionally and let me know how you are doing. Sending you hugs and sharing my tears.


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