Today is Wednesday, August 9, 2006. It has been 20 weeks and 3 days since Bob died. And it seems like the pain is worse. I can look back at the first couple of weeks and see that I was in shock. I was sad and I cried a lot, but the sadness had to do with his dying, with his loss of strength and thought, with my loss, with the ending of our marriage, with the briefness of that sweet Indian Summer. Now I hurt from the pain of missing him, and I cry because the enormity of "forever" is slowly seeping into my consciousness. When I try to wrap my brain around the idea that he is gone forever, my heart tears apart, and I'm afraid that I can't survive it. And I'm afraid that I will survive it, but I will never heal. Or that I will heal, but I don't know who I'll be.

I thought I would be better by now, that the grieving would have brought me some comfort and that the healing would have begun. But I've been overly optimistic. The grieving process is still early--shock has carried me this far--shock and the caring companionship of my friends and family who have filled my summer with visits and activities. Now it's nearly time for school to start, and just as always, that means less time for social contacts. Now I see how much I depended on Bob for my easy companionship--someone to speak with and to share with, but who would leave me to my work when I needed to work. I miss the wordless companionship--so easily meshed, so easily understood. What a horrible loss.

I just don't see much purpose in the rest of my life. I've always been such an optimist, always believed that everything works out for the ultimate benefit. But this just doesn't seem to hold any promise of gain. I suppose I'll get better and I'll give back, perhaps volunteer for Hospice Austin, and, as I've always known, teaching writing is good and necessary work. But I can't say that I'm looking forward to anything in the future. And this is a side of me that I have only known for certain periods--Baby Jessica in the well--not for such a prolonged and unrelieved period. I've always had Bob to haul me out of the well--maybe that's overstating it--but I counted on him to be there when I hauled myself out. He was my cheerleader, urging me to face the work to be done and stay at it. How I miss him. I can imagine him--but I want his physical self. Here. Now.

I feel like a small child, crying that I don't like it this way. Complaining that this isn't what I signed on for. And feeling like nothing will ever change--life will always feel just like this. I hope it doesn't. The adult part of me knows that the only constant is change, and that means that I will change. I will learn a new me, a new normal. I just don't want it. I am not resigned and I do not approve.  ¶ 12:17 PM