I’m not the same person.
Nor will I ever be.
The girl I once was is gone and only the shell remains.
All of the self-help books about grief tell me this, that I am different by the loss I have experienced.
There is this huge void in my life now, a big black gaping hole.
It sucks the air from my lungs, the light from my eyes, the smile from my face. I can’t stop the pull, I can’t keep the pieces of myself together.
I’ve been depressed off and on for most of my life, saddened by other losses of loved ones.
This is different. This is the nightmare of version of Alice Through the Looking Glass.
There a pills that make me numb for when I feel small and pills that make me brave when I need to be a big girl but none of them make me feel like the right Alice.
Very few things bring me a glimpse of joy or comfort.
My big dopey baby old man Kody lends me his fur and patiently puts up with my need to constantly touch and mother him. My love holds me under the hot shower or sits closer than usual on the couch. My sister gets loud and giggly when she sees me after a long day. My mother and her obnoxious trio of barking, clawing, kissing and demanding mutts. Photos of him all over the house. His garage. His clothes. His smell.
And soil. The smell, feel and taste of rich nutrient filled soil hot in the sun, wet in the rain or flooded with the garden hose. I long to lie down in top soil, dig my feet into it, or taste it on my tongue. I’ve become obsessed.
Beyond these and the beauty of an afternoon nap or lying in bed until I am ready to rise at my own free will, pleasures are few and far between.
This world is foreign, and life is a play.
But I am different. I am changed. How could I not be?
He was my rock, my shelter, my creativity, my anchor, my wings.
I seriously feel like I am walking around sideways. My head is down and my legs are up, the only thing keeping me tethered to this ground are my fingers grabbing at anything to hold for just a moment.