Anger

I was never angry at you a single time when you were alive. Our life together was fluid. It was calm like a still lake; the only turbulence was passion and adventure. When we disagreed, the ripples were small and resolved quickly through immediate discourse. It was as if a fish jumped out of the water and then without any memory, hook, line, or sinker, just disappeared back from where it came. Together, we were frictionless.

So, it feels wrong to be angry with you now. It's an unnatural emotion for me. One of those responses that stays way on the back burner. "USE ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY." Well, this defines an emergency. So here comes anger. Shit, watch out.

You aren't here to defend yourself. You aren't here to react. You aren't here to tell me your side of the story. You aren't here to hug me and make it OK. But that's why I'm angry. You're not here. What the fuck, babe?

You promised me you would be here for me. When I left three yoga studios, a business I'd built from the ground, sold my house, and said goodbye to dozens of friends – it was because you promised me you'd be here for me. You would build a home with me. You would help me find a new career here. You would wake up next to me every day and kiss me good morning. You would be my one. You promised me this was it. I knew it. You knew it. So why did you break your promise? What did I do wrong? Why am I alone? Where did you go? Why won't you answer me? Why do I look around and see everyone else so happy – love, marriage, houses, families, success, security, smiles – and I'm alone and sad. You said you would be here for me. You never lied to me. But now you have.

When you were alive, you were so cautious not to hurt others. Even when they needed to be scolded, you were still tender. We trusted you to treat us kindly. We trusted you. I trusted you. We believed you would be here for us forever. We depended on you. I depended on you. When you were floating off to the light, did you know how much we needed you here? How much I needed you here? Maybe you were done with us, but we weren't done with you, Ted. I had so much more love to give you. We all did. Why did you rob us of that chance to love you more? Why did you rob me?

I came undone for you. Every wall I'd built up, every protective sheath, every guard, every story, every excuse – I let it all go when I fell in love with you. I softened like a ripe fruit. I let myself be vulnerable. And you held me gently. You held me as if I were an egg that could crack at anytime and you wouldn't dare let that happen. You teased me into full exposure. You were tender. You were loving. You cared for me with the nurturing of a mother. You showed me that there was none other than you. You were my match. You made me whole. Until you left. Death flirted with you, showed you her daunting beauty, and you chose her over me. You left me. You left all of us here who love you and need you. You broke the egg, smashed it into a thousand pieces and let the yolk spill out into the mud. You took that supple fruit and you gripped it so hard it bruised until it exploded, rotten pulp oozing into the hot sun and making your fingers sticky. You have broken me. I was whole and now I am broken. Shattered. Bruised. Tarnished. Damaged goods.

This anger scares me. I don't want to feel it and I don't want to fight with you. I am sorry for my anger. And I know you are sorry too. I know you are.

A couple days ago, right after my anger had really begun to appear, an old friend of yours sent me a message. She told me you had appeared to her in a dream. Initially, you were alive in the dream. You were a lifeguard at a pool. The two of you were chatting like old times. Then, the truth hit. You are dead. She said the dream became much more intense, more lucid. You changed forms from the lifeguard and began to disappear, as though you were being taken away. She said it was as though you didn't want to leave but couldn't control it. Watching you leave, she asked, "Is there anything you want me to tell anyone?" You remained quiet. "Is there anything you want me to tell Sami?" she asked. "Tell her 'I'm sorry'," you said. And then you were gone.

I hear you. I know you're sorry. But I just don't know if I'm ready to accept it quite yet. I will, my love. I will. But it's not easy.

And so goes life. One day I feel darkness, the next I feel lightness. One day I feel loneliness, the next I feel connected. One day I feel love, the next I feel anger. It is confusing. It feels bottomless. Someone will say to me, "You're pulling through! This is a turning point for you." Yes. A turning point that will turn right back around and go back in the opposite direction. Just give it a few days, a few hours, a few minutes. Grief is like a pendulum that swings back and forth. When it starts to slow down, something or nothing comes in and wacks it again – catapulting it into high gear all over again.

I have heard that anger is a step of the grief process. Honestly, I thought I would leapfrog it. 'I am bigger than anger,' I told myself. I thought, 'I've never been angry at him before, so why would I be now?' Well, once again, grief has humbled me; I am not bigger than anger. It has slapped me in the face and it stings. It's not a natural place for me to be. It feels as though I'm ice skating with socks on; it's slippery. But, I recognize that I can't control my emotions. This is how I feel now, but it can change in an instant. Today, anger has gripped me with it's ugly, sticky hands. It's taking me for a ride that makes me motion sick. And though this ride makes me ill, I will hold on to my truth and eventually I'll make it through, truth intact. Anger will retract his fierce claws.

Home Alone

It's been 62 days, 20 hours, and 36 minutes since I saw you take your last breath. Each day creeps slowly onto the next. I've settled into the knowledge that my only healer will be time. I've heard it, I've read it, but now I feel it, I know it. As of now, the wound remains open and raw. I think in some ways it's more open and raw now than it was 62 days ago. The adrenaline has left my system, the support is softer and less immediate, and the reality is vivid. Life without you is sinking in, it's desolate.

Tonight is the first time in 62 days that I've been at our house by myself. I've been alone for six hours now. I made a plan for myself. I would stay busy and 'not have to think about it' too much. But as I've learned, no matter what I'm occupying my body with, my mind is still longing for you. There's absolutely no distraction from grief. So in the past six hours, while I worked through my checklist of distractions, I still managed to cry in nearly every room of the house.

I thought that since I was alone in our home tonight maybe you would come to visit. You'd make a paranormal stopover just to check in with me, give me a kiss, and tell me you're watching over me. You'd wrap your angel wings around me. But, the house is quiet. There are so signs of angelic visitors. Kira and Beats are sad with me. They're curled up in little balls in their waiting spots. They've been waiting for Daddy to get home for 62 days now.

Our pets would occasionally follow me from room to room as I moved through the house this evening. I unpacked from the last six week's travel. I put my things away around all of your stuff that is everywhere. I did yoga and meditated. I thought of how much you would have loved to be practicing next to me and how proud you would be that I've been meditating. I took a shower and shaved my legs. I thought about how I would tell you, "Feel how smooth my legs are!" You would stroke my shin and say, "Oooh, yeah! Niiice!" I streamed the String Cheese Incident show. I now know over half the songs I hear, including their names, and sometimes who wrote them. You would be so proud. You would be so stoked to hang here with me tonight doing all these things we loved to do together. If you were here, then I wouldn't have had to cry through it all.

I cleaned my engagement ring tonight. I used a little brush to wipe its facets clean while it soaked in liquid. I watched the wear from the past couple months rinse off the diamonds like. When I took it out it was more sparkly than ever. I stared at it for a long time wishing I could wash myself of everything that easily, going back to my pure form, not carrying all of this weight. I admired the ring. It is perfect. It is just what I always dreamed of. We were supposed to be married. We were supposed to be happy. We were supposed to live long lives together. But instead, this perfect ring represents an broken promise. I thought about how badly I wish that you'd been able to propose to me before you died. How badly I wanted to tell you 'yes'. How I wanted to be able to call my best friend and tell her the news. I wish that the ring had been completed just one-week earlier, then maybe I'd have been able to hear those words. Maybe it would have changed something. When I called my best friend that morning 62 days ago she answered brightly, thinking I may have exciting news – then she heard my sobs. She couldn't even understand what I was saying, but she knew the news was not what she was expecting. The news was not good.

So today begins a new phase. A phase of being back home, without you. A phase of rebuilding. A phase I'm not ready for. I am not ready to rebuild or to leave the world with you that I wanted more than I ever wanted anything in this life. I'm not ready, but I have to go, because I have to contend with time – my healer.