numbers 1-31

The problem with dates is that each one is an anniversary of sorts.

Today it’s 8 months from the day Zack went to the hospital and never left.

But no date survives unscathed, untouched by something painful or beautiful from our years together. I really should stop trying to act like any of these numbers aren’t difficult to see. It started out that the monthly deathiversary was the worst but now they’re kind of all the worst.

Sometimes it hurts more to see the fond ones, things that were joyful at the time like birthdays and holidays and new experiences together, knowing there are no more the same to come.

I don’t want to forget but I also wonder if I should turn off “on this day” type things in my photo storage and social media platforms.

I haven’t been writing a lot here because I’ve been journaling on paper and talking to dear friends and not had much else to say, I guess, that isn’t more of the same. Some moments are pretty bad. What do I say. This still sucks.

At the same time continued existence isn’t quite as absolutely constantly painful as months ago. I’m able to function a little better, play with my son a little more. I’m able to read, or watch tv, or play a game, and derive something from it sometimes. A pinprick of joy, a hole in the blanket of despair.

I have no doubt by the world’s standards I’m barely functional and hideously depressed, consumed by complicated grief, but I wonder how it would even be possible to be doing any better. It still gives me hope to think that on average, taking into account all the ups and downs, I’m slightly more able to get through the day.

Yet it feels like erasure to admit I can experience other emotions atop grief and I’m possessive of my grief and don’t want to let it go. I guess I fear that anything but paralysis (hah I still hate words that remind me of hospitalization and breathlessness but I can’t get them out of my working vocabulary) is moving on or forgetting.

Rationally, I think that if my ability to cope with daily existence improves I’ll be better able to write about the good memories, better able to preserve him and convey him to our son, better able to do the things he loved and would have liked to see me doing. The opposite of erasure. But the fear is still there. Doing anything, changing anything, making any progress, enjoying anything. Seems wrong without him.

Seems wrong to enjoy visiting or talking with our oldest and most beloved mutual friend and not be able to tell Zack about it, not be able to plan the next time Zack can see them, never be able to look forward again to seeing his eyes light up in their company.

but with all the time I already spend being a crying shambles of a human being on the floor *with* that friendship to comfort me day in and day out I can’t imagine how I’d survive otherwise so I try to graciously accept the painfulness of the joy.

I’m doing the best I can I guess.