On entering my second week of mourning.
Dec. 18th, 2006 12:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
napoleonherselfNow that I no longer have a Chris to talk to as part of my daily activities, I have a lot of time to think. And since so many things remind me of him, most of that thinking is along one general line.
One thing I am thinking about a lot is the Jenny of, say, two months ago. The Jenny of mid-late-ish October. I fucking hate that bitch. She thought she was sad a lot of the time. She thought she was lonely. You don't know the first thing about lonely, you stupid bitch. Your Chris is still alive. Sure, you haven't laid eyes on him in years, and you sometimes despair of ever doing so again, but at least you've still got the chance. Quit whimpering about a few thousand miles of distance, a few more years of waiting. It's not that fucking bad.
At this point I have about a quarter to a half of each day's waking period where I feel more or less okay; the sadness never leaves, but it at least retreats and becomes distant, and I can honestly believe like I will get by okay in the years and decades and whatever to come. The rest of the time, of course, I hurt so bad that it gets hard to breathe, and it's all I can do to keep from crying and crying and crying. I talk to him a lot, in both states of mind. I do not fucking want to hear about how stupid that is. It helps. Let me have my mental placebo.
That, then, is where I am now. I have thus far looked thoughtfully at a knife only once, and it wasn't even a longing look. 'Cause really, that would be cheating. So I used it to cut a sandwich instead.
One thing I am thinking about a lot is the Jenny of, say, two months ago. The Jenny of mid-late-ish October. I fucking hate that bitch. She thought she was sad a lot of the time. She thought she was lonely. You don't know the first thing about lonely, you stupid bitch. Your Chris is still alive. Sure, you haven't laid eyes on him in years, and you sometimes despair of ever doing so again, but at least you've still got the chance. Quit whimpering about a few thousand miles of distance, a few more years of waiting. It's not that fucking bad.
At this point I have about a quarter to a half of each day's waking period where I feel more or less okay; the sadness never leaves, but it at least retreats and becomes distant, and I can honestly believe like I will get by okay in the years and decades and whatever to come. The rest of the time, of course, I hurt so bad that it gets hard to breathe, and it's all I can do to keep from crying and crying and crying. I talk to him a lot, in both states of mind. I do not fucking want to hear about how stupid that is. It helps. Let me have my mental placebo.
That, then, is where I am now. I have thus far looked thoughtfully at a knife only once, and it wasn't even a longing look. 'Cause really, that would be cheating. So I used it to cut a sandwich instead.
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Date: 2006-12-18 09:00 am (UTC)That's all I really have to say.