Last Saturday, the little munchkin & I visited Steve’s grave. It always has been an emotional experience for me going there. Why should he be six feet under when he should be here with us? So many questions running through my head in anguish but I have no answers or rather no one has any answers for me.
The little one said a little prayer for Steve: “God bless Daddy. Amen.” He is my sunshine in this darkness.
It’s been two months since Steve was found and a month and a half since we had the funeral service. And here I am still, in disbelief. I’m in an emotional rollercoaster of pain, numbness, anger, and emotional rejection of the fact that Steve had passed away. It’s even hard for me to say THAT word. Suicide.
A lot of people don’t know what to say to me. I don’t even know what to say, either. But sometimes silence is fine and a friend who can just be there and really listen helps. You don’t have to say anything because I don’t need to hear about moving on, closure or getting over with. I don’t need a prescription of what I have to be and what I have to do unless you’re a licensed therapist specializing in bereavement. You can share your experiences with me but understand that our experiences are different and we grieve differently. But you can hold my hand and that’s enough for me.
Death. There’s such a finality in this word. As if suddenly, everything stopped. The end. And yet for me, my husband’s death is only the beginning.