It’s hard to tell what is dream and what is reality these days. My life is a nightmare. Not feels like a nightmare. It is a nightmare. The kind that at some point your brain would wake you up from so you didn’t have to endure it anymore. But there is no mechanism for turning off reality.


There is.

It feels unfair to call it a hole, what is in me right now. It’s not a hole. It’s a chasm. It’s a canyon. It’s…

A pit.

The vastness is not so much the defining factor as is the depth. Pit really truly captures that.

Some days, I can walk around the pit. I dance delicately along the edge of the pit and it feels like a mirage. “What was I so worried about? It’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”

Some days, some days. Some days I stare directly into the pit. My toes hang off the edge and I know the balance is tenuous at best, fatal at worst, and I wish that an errant breeze would just push me into the pit.

Push me into the pit.

Push me.

Into the pit.

Looking into it, it’s too much. It’s too big. How can I dance around this like a sprite? How can I live next to it? How is it safe? How is it safe? How is it real?

Will someone wake me up from the nightmare, please?

Do I need to turn off reality?

Push me.

Into the pit.

There is a breeze, but it pushes me back. I catch my breath, not realizing I was holding it. My chest caves in on itself, my heart shrivels, and the relief from not falling is almost as bad as the pit itself.

God bless my safety.

My son.

Our son.

When I talk about him, it is no longer plural possessive, it is singular possessive. He is my son, even though he is really our son. But to talk about you as if you were still here some days pushes me back to the edge of the pit.

What if I hovered one foot over the edge? Would it be so bad? Would it be hard? Would it hurt?

Did it hurt?

When you fell?

Into the pit?

Some days, my heels hang over the edge and it’s only the strength of my calves and thighs that keep me from falling back.

I am strong, but this is too much. My body and brain and heart can’t handle this. Will a breeze please come and put me out of my misery? Will something please wake me up?

Oh, there’s my safety again. He’s calling my name and telling me how he hurt his head. And I hold him and curl my arms around him and smell his beautiful sweet smell. He tells me about the planets on his ceiling. You are Neptune. I am Venus. He is Earth.

He is Earth.

He is my safety, and I am ashamed that I need a safety. I am ashamed it is him.

But, as someone told me, he is an excellent reason to stay tethered to Earth. To him.

I miss you.

It’s our wedding day. Was and is still the happiest day of my life. The days leading up to today, I hovered near the pit, danced along the edge, tried to turn my back, tried to get a just right breeze to lend me the force I needed but couldn’t do myself.

This day is being done to me. It’s been barreling towards me since this whole thing started. I keep thinking the last Day without you was the hardest, but each passing holiday I get to celebrate because of you proves to be harder than the last.

Why do people who have terrible partners get to be married and have anniversaries? Why are we the ones who have to be apart?

For now, I will make a home next to the pit. I will tether myself to my safety for as long as that golden rope will hold. I will spend some days with my feet dangling over it, like it’s a cool pool on a hot day. I will wish you were next to me. Sometimes I will feel you. Sometimes I won’t.

Happy Anniversary, sweetheart.


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