Too burnt out to even write

I’ve been doing pretty bad and I had a lot of stuff to do and work travel and then my kid got sick right when I came back and I just haven’t been feeling like writing. Barely even writing in my paper journal except notes during work meetings. 

I like there to be an entry for every day. So maybe I’ll add something for those, something I was thinking about or did write on paper. But, reader, don’t think that I was doing well enough to actually write here on every date. 

I mostly write the same thing. “I miss you.” All I can think about is how awful it is to have to keep going without him. 


It’s all bullshit, the things people say about how to write about your grief, make it something that transforms you. There is no hopeful path there is nothing redeeming in this, no making grief make you a different or better person, some fucking life lesson to be gotten. Don’t fucking land on the wrong side of chance, what kind of lesson is that. Fuck everything. I don’t expect to transform I just expect to survive bitter and gnarled full of vicious dark

I would tear the fabric of the universe if I could to get back to you

Why do I have to lose you so soon? The fundamental injustice, unfairness of it is overwhelming

I would take the bargain I’d always take the bargain to have any time with you

but I wish there was a devil I could sell my soul to, to have you back


I’m so angry that your body failed you so soon. Grateful for all we had but it will never be enough. 

Can’t face normal life today, the march onward of obligations and routines

Why does the stupid planet even spin?

can’t go home ever again

You were extraordinary

solace, strength, home, hope, comfort

What do I do now without that? To have to construct home where I stand, out of these papier-mache memories, fragile and crumbly? I’m terrified of you fading as I struggle to recall the ordinary day-to-day of Before

half of me died with you

how can I preserve enough of you to teach our son? to convey the essence of you to a stranger so I can say: here is my beloved, my redeemer, my reason. the one I love more than anything else in the universe, the one who is everything to me

how can I hold that all in a nutshell, in a mustard seed enough that it can tell the shape of the tree? 

so that if I’m old and senile someone can tell me the stories of our beautiful life?


I got the Forsaken Destiny 2 DLC. We hadn’t really finished the Warmind expansion this spring. But it looks like some of our clanmates are going to stick around for this one and so even if all I do is a little of it, I’ll have some social time that’s low pressure and doesn’t involve lining up childcare or having to drive anywhere. 

But FUCK is it hard going back. Sitting there thinking about the anticipation of loading in to a new expansion. We’re supposed to be next to each other, me on the little portable xbox screen, watching the cutscenes from your game together on the big tv. TTK, Rise of Iron, Destiny 2 itself, staycations to game together. 

I cried when Cayde says “I’m coming home, Ace.”

I don’t know if I’ll be raid ready ever, because it will take me so long to level and because I don’t know if I can face doing it without you anyway. We’re down to too few active clanmates so we’d have to LFG for a sixth

and I feel like Eriana-3 losing Wei Ning or Eris’ fireteam when Tarlowe fell

but maybe I can join the 3-person activities, get something out of it, some escape in the immersion

omnican and aediapony at the tower in Destiny 1, taking screenshots before Destiny 2 release

i am a shadow without you

having another night of it doesn’t seem real

this is supposed to be OUR house, our life. not just mine

I write to you all the time in a paper journal but I can’t believe that I can never really tell you anything again. Can never collapse in your arms. Can never show you a beautiful photo, never write you another love note

I keep wearing your t-shirts and white undershirts to bed lately. As if I can somehow replicate your embrace

I don’t want to have to accept this is the timeline I live in

puddles and cameras

Yesterday it rained while the sun was coming back out. Bright afternoon sun backlighting the gentle rain

Our son gleeful, stomping in a giant puddle in the backyard

Today full of headache still took him to an orchard fall festival with family. He mostly wanted to run down long grassy slopes, lifting his feet high to get through swishy overgrown damp grass. I was noise- and light-sensitive so very out of it

I took my camera to the orchard, tried to get some photos of him with family, haven’t looked yet but probably all shitty (technically and artistically) but just picking it up is probably good.

I have been taking phone photos, but hardly any with the “real” camera since Zack died. The DSLR he bought me, eight years or so ago, because I was too stingy to do it myself and he encouraged my passion for photography, thought I deserved a digital camera that wasn’t a point and shoot. He painstakingly searched through the Canon and Nikon offerings to find something that suited me, where the top display and wheels would feel as much as possible like what I was most fond of and familiar with (mostly Pentax SLRs like the Spotmatic and K1000), and where all pertinent info would be available without having to go in menus in the back LCD; finally settled on the Nikon D300s. 

maybe good to not withdraw from all my previous interests

busy weekend at least keeps me from having hours to write and cry

Brains suck

I think my brain still thinks I just have to survive until you come home. 

I’m an atheist and I know there is no reunion.

I saw your body quit working in front of me.

I felt your heart stop. I saw the evidence. I cleaned your lifeless eyes. 

I thought that would make it easier to know you’re never going to walk back through the door. It’s not your car I hear coming home from work. You’re not coming back from my parents’ with our son in your arms.

need to write about something other than how shitty I’m doing

I’m angry that I spend so much time writing about being angry and sad and it’s just a boring repetitious rehash every day for months

Because no shit, looks like I’m going to be bad off for a long time

I wish I were spending that time writing about the things you loved, the things we did together, all the fun things I miss. Trying to preserve those stories that maybe no one else can tell, while they’re fresh enough to somehow convey your character through my shitty writing

Prompts off the top of my head for me to come back and write

  • Destiny. Destiny 1, 2, raids, PoE, Thorn
  • Grimfoe, Foam Brain, PAX, BoardGameGeek
  • Scouts, OotM, library, volunteering, ham radio
  • Mass Effect, Fallout, Skyrim, Alien Isolation, Prey
  • TNG, Data, Measure of a Man
  • Feliz, Microcenter, the time before that that we merged desktops
  • 8 Queens, Kryptos and all the other things we used to talk about on car rides home from dinner after your classes for your MS
  • Learning board game mechanics. Ra, Wizard, first getting into the board game revival, mini-cons. Made-up handicap for Race for the Galaxy. Deckbuilders, euros, bidding. Codenames & Dixit, knowing how someone thinks.
  • Teton Con, one-shots, wanting to walk down the mountain, Russian Railroads, systems with zero chance
  • Cape Cod, beaches, sailing, houseboat

Footnote. This is also a fake it until you make it ambition. Depressed people use more first-person personal pronouns. I don’t expect this to make me less angry/sad/numb/depressed, because grief is a bitch, but maybe it’ll be the tiniest bit less of a self-fulfilling prophecy if I spend more time thinking about something besides the inside-out absence of everything.

I know you’d say I have no responsibility to grieve in a particular way, don’t owe you. but if I feel I have one duty to you, it’s to try to record more while I remember it as clearly as I can. My obligation to convey your love and a sense of your energetic youth to our son. it stretches out before me and maybe this duty takes the rest of my life. maybe this is some weird survivor’s guilt burden, but I don’t care. 

10/10 would not recommend

instructions unclear, rating system fucked

What a stupid date. 10/10.

I’m bad today for no clear reason. Angry and crying

Seeing our almost 22-month old kid play with trucks, use the digger to push stars (Gerber puffs) around and load them into a dump truck and eat them. Demanding that we get him more stars, that we push them around with a bulldozer, that we pour them

How much it hurts that you don’t get to play like that. You would have been amazing. I hate that I barely got to see you as a father beyond his infancy. You always had ways of playing with him that were different from anyone else. You never get to throw a ball with him outside. I am so angry. He’s resilient, he doesn’t quite know what he’s missing. but I do

And you’re missing all Toddler’s words. I reread some old texts… in early June, I thought he might have said “boat gone” for the first time. We discussed, thought it improbable, that he probably said the words near each other but didn’t quite mean them as one utterance, because there wasn’t a repeat for a really long time and he had just gotten the hang of single words. We had been concerned enough when he didn’t have a single word at 15 months that he had an early intervention eval (delayed, but not enough to qualify for services).

It’s unmistakable now four months later that he does make 3+ word phrases. I’m furious you don’t get the reassurance of knowing he’s back on track.

You saw him say “Da,” but not “Daddy” like he can now.

You never heard him say “Mama.”