People lied - Times doesn't heal, it doesn't get easier, it get harder

 

People lied - Time doesn't heal, it doesn't get easier, it gets so much harder.

I haven't posted for a while. I was holding off until after his Memorial. I found it so hard to do, let alone say the word “Funeral”, which upset some in the family. But that was how I coped at the time, and how I still feel, so Memorial it is.

Two months later, I have finally managed to post that David's wishes have been met. He is free to roam the oceans, amongst the waves he loved so much.

Six months have now passed. And it’s not getting any better, and I am NOT OK.

I keep breathing. I keep getting up. I keep putting on the show that life expects of me. I smile when I am supposed to smile. I nod when I am supposed to nod. I tell people I am OK. I tell them I'm fine.

But deep down, I am done.

I am not broken, because broken things can usually be fixed. I am not lost, because lost things can sometimes be found.

I am empty yet full of despair. I am a vessel that once lived, laughed and loved the most wonderful man on earth.

And now he is gone. I feel nothing.

I am numb to the world, like water flowing downstream, simply going with the flow. I do what needs to be done. I answer when people speak to me. I smile and nod when expected. But I'm not OK. And it isn't getting any better.

For months, I have coped by pretending David is simply away for work. Somehow, that makes each day bearable. If I imagine he is away, then I don't have to accept that he isn't coming home.

But the empty days keep crawling past. And somewhere deep inside me, I know that eventually I will have to face the reality I have been fighting so desperately against. But I am not ready for that.

At first, I found little ways of taking control of my downward spiralling life. I did things David wouldn't have liked, simply because I could.

I planted bulbs in the lawn and then refused to cut it. I let the beautiful “weeds” grow — the clover, wild violets and what David called “Debbie Daisies”. He would usually leave a clump for me to enjoy, even though he probably thought they were weeds. I wonder what he would have thought that I had included some of those so-called weeds in the memorial petals we placed on the water for him. But to me, weeds aren't weeds if they are in the right place. They were just beautiful little flowers growing in the grass, giving us joy.

I have done other things too, anything to feel in control of my numb world. I have deliberately gone places David didn't like going. I've been to pubs he didn't like. I've gone to London to the theatre to see a show and art galleries. I've eaten things he wouldn't normally have wanted.

David was very much a “meat and two veg” man. I like salads, soups and all sorts of things he wouldn't necessarily have chosen. So now I eat what I want, just to try and be in control of something in my life.

He liked things done at certain times. It was one of the many things I loved about him. And now there is no one to tell me otherwise.

Then came my escape.

I chose two weeks in Japan because it was somewhere we had never been. Somewhere we were never going to go. Somewhere without memories of David around every corner. I also hoped it might help me paint again. As I have hardly painted since he died. The only real art I had done was painting his three Navy badges for his Memorial.

The day after I booked Japan, I sat in a corner and sobbed. I couldn't face it. I very nearly cancelled. But I kept the booking and thought, I'll just try.

It was incredibly hard.

On the first day, I couldn't even get off the plane because I couldn't fill in the visa, which I have done many times for work. I sobbed. I struggled, as there were retired couples enjoying time together and I was jealous and felt cheated.

But after three days, things started to settle down a little, still painful, but it was such a fast paced trip there was less time to think. Then, about day ten, one of the people on the trip heard that I was looking for an art gallery. They found one for me bless them.

So I went, and I sat there and cried. I cried because I felt incredibly lucky to be there.

And I cried because the only reason I was there was because David was gone.

That made it horribly real all over again and I had to give myself a metaphorical kick and tell myself:

Come on, Dbee. You are incredibly lucky to be here. There are people who would never have the opportunity to come to Japan.

So I tried. But it was still never a holiday. It was always an escape. But for the rest of my time there, I tried to make the most of it. And slowly, I started sketching.

The Japanese have Eki and Goshuin stamps — stamps and seals collected in books when visiting stations, places and temples.

I had brought a small travel watercolour sketch book with me in the hope I may be inspired to paint and so used that for the stamps.

After that gallery visit, I started painting in it around the stamps, little drawings relevant to each place. And something inside me began to stir.

I must add I have to give a huge thank you to Karla, who can be found at https://www.karlajodoin.com and Facebook. Without sounding dramatic, she saved me without really knowing it. I started doodling her flowers months ago, then painting them. Because of her I was able to move from drawing little flowers to filling in my travel sketch book that is now full of my little paintings. Check out her social media pages and you may be inspired too, she makes it so easy to follow!

I hope that, one day soon, I will return to my Chinese art. But for now, I'm drawing little flowers and little things that are special to me.

And perhaps that is enough for now.

But now it has been six months.

And I know I have to face reality.

And I really, really don't want to.

Because it hurts too much.

I know he isn't coming home.

I know that.

My head knows it.

But my heart simply cannot accept it yet.

It is just too awful.

So, for now, I don't know if I can do it.

Until I am ready, I will keep breathing.

I will keep nodding.

I will keep smiling.

I will keep telling everyone that I'm OK.

And I will keep painting, because somehow, putting colour onto paper gives me a little solace. But reality is creeping in, and I keep fighting it back.

That is why, for me, it isn't getting better.

It is getting worse.

Because every day that passes takes me one day closer to having to accept the thing I cannot bear to accept.

He's never coming home.

I will never again feel his strong arms around me, making me feel safe and loved.

I will never hear his stupid but hilarious quips.

I will never cook a meal he loved for him.

I will never walk somewhere beside him and hear the same commentary, again and again. It was almost boringly repetitive sometimes. And I would give absolutely anything to hear it again.

I will never hear him “scream like a girl”, as he put it, while watching his favourite funny films.

I will never have his hand in mine when I wake up.

I will never hear him singing softly in my ear when we danced.

I will never enter the bathroom after David has had a shower to a cloud of his antiperspirant that he used so much of.

I will never have those ordinary, everyday moments that I once took for granted because I thought there would always be another one.

That is the cruelty of losing someone you adore.

People say that time heals.

I don't know about that.

At six months, time isn't healing me.

Time is simply proving that every day I survive is another day further away from the last time I held him, heard him, laughed with him or watched him walk through the door.

Time doesn't bring him back.

It cruelly reminds me of that.

So I keep going through the motions.

Breathing.

Smiling.

Nodding.

Painting.

Pretending.

And desperately wishing for the impossible.

Just one more hug.

One more laugh.

One more stupid quip.

One more ordinary day with my David.

Because I don't want a life without him.

Because I can't believe he has gone

Because I don't want to.

And that is the part I still don't know how to accept.

Dbee xx