one month

Images of you are getting clearer. I can hear your voice and your subtle tones, your choice of words and confidence. Your touch on my face, your chest on my back, your smile, god I miss your smile, they’re all coming back to me in slow doses. They surround me like a swarm of bees, each stinging and poking me like a gaggle of school bullies who can’t leave the weakling alone. And just as I’m about to crumble the final blow swoops down, and I remember that moment Adam told me you were dead. But then I feel your hand brush gently across my cheek and I see your eyes look inquisitively at me, and I feel still for a brief moment of time. But the crushing forces return swiftly and there you are on the ground launch hill stubbornly willing your canopy to fly. The moments of your death play through my mind and I’m numb as I watch you die. I get hysterical in my mind. I’m screaming and falling on the ground, wailing and willing it undone. I relive that night in my darkest moments which come to me at least a few times a day. I talk of “you” now. But I don’t know who I’m talking to anymore. You are gone. You are only a memory in my mind of days when I was happy and the world was finally looking up. But then I see you again and you’re looking at me. You’re shy but bold and you’re strong when you hold me. Then you’re at the luggage carousel looking all happy, holding my face in your hands. Then you’re in the car looking all mischievous as you dart between the lanes of traffic. You’re popping your head in my trailer door, it’s late at night and I’ve been waiting for hours. You’re picking out your mustache at the costume store. You’re laying on the bed talking to Gavin. You’re getting out of the car telling me it was a Tempo-L. There are so many memories and they all make me happy – up until the moment I realize there won’t be any more new memories – up until I realize that you are dead and partially sitting on my table in a small bag.

People keep telling me I will be fine. I survived my father’s death when I was 21, but this seems so much more intense. Or maybe I don’t remember. Maybe I blocked a lot of it out. It took me two years to admit that he even existed in the first place as denying him as being a real live person once was far less painful initially. I can’t do that with you. Not this time. And fuck – the torture. I convulse when i cry. I cringe and roll up into a ball trying to drift away to some other universe where no ache and torment like this exists. I disintegrate and that strong independent woman you loved so much is no more. But you know why. You know how intense I am. You know how sensitive I am. You know that underneath all the many things I do to be on top of my game in this life, I am just a soft-hearted girl who needs to be loved. You adored how you brought that out of me, but Dave … no one has ever brought that out of me. And that soft-hearted girl is in agony. People have offered me words of advice, they have offered me their spiritual thoughts of where you are and what it’s like and how I should think, but I don’t think they understand that I’m still suffering from losing one of my limbs, from having to learn to walk again, from having to learn to do everything again without that piece of me that I was so terribly attached to. The wound is still fresh. It hurts to just look at it. And still sometimes I just can’t fucking believe that any of this is real. It doesn’t feel real. I don’t remember what real feels like though. Everything is different and I have no basis to compare.

I’m getting sick of people asking me how I’m doing though. They don’t really want to know the brutal honest truth. If I tell them the truth they don’t know what to say. I wish they would stop asking and let me be. They didn’t know you. They have no idea how much I love you. And the people who trivialize it. Well, fuck them.

So I survived one month. It’s fucked because I have no idea how. One breath at a time, one minute at a time, one day at a time. I go to bed each night and sleep terribly. I toss violently and wake up dozens of times. I am so tired, but I can’t sleep. I try, but I can’t sleep. I’m getting cranky. I’m getting edgy, but I can’t sleep. I can hardly remember my dreams, but you’re dead in all of them. Would you please come visit me? Please? I’d give anything to have you with me at night. Could you please exist in my dreamworld at least? At least that.

One month … it’s fucking crazy. But today a friend of ours from San Diego brought me two shirts of yours and they smell of you. They’re unwashed, worn by you. I cried. I smelt them and cried. I held them to my chest and cried. I have been waiting for these shirts for one month. I am gonna dress one of your pillows in a shirt and sleep beside you tonight. Maybe that will help.  Maybe I really am going crazy. But Dave – I still love you. I will always love you. Hopefully in time the visions will change. Hopefully I’ll hear you talk new words and whisper sweet things as I wander through life in the coming days. Hopefully you’re waiting for me as I was for you. Hopefully you’ll be there when it’s my turn. But for now, I hope you’ll just come into my dreams. For now it’s one breath, one minute and one day. For now I just do what I need to do and hopefully life will take care of the rest.


About humanbeen

I'm a has-been that was. I'm a dreamer that does.
This entry was posted in coping, crying, death, grief, heartbreak, loss. Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to one month

  1. Heather says:

    This is by far the best story I have read so far Sheri. You have taken the first step of healing by saying these words in your story:

    “For now it’s one breath, one minute and one day.”

    Keep writing girl because you have a talent. You should write your story, your book because I would be honored to read it.

    Love ya

  2. Mary P says:

    I hope Dave will come and visit you in your dreams, like you said, at least that…..

  3. Catherine says:

    He will come sweetie. They come when you least expect and make it ok. The shirts will help you cope….love you

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