The sun would seep through the doors.
My eyes would blink with hesitation.
Fear.
They'd open and it would hit my heart like a sledgehammer.
The stark fact that I was still breathing.
The thought of knowing that I had a possible 60 more seconds, let alone 5 minutes, let alone another day, was my hell.
It was the beginning days and months of Michael's death.
Then the minutes became bearable. And then the days. And then I would play with the thought of making plans a week ahead.
This was the beginning.
The end.
And now, in retrospect, the days I have pride in knowing I held on.
1 second.
2.
3.
Breathe.
I am having on of those days where I can't seem to focus. At almost 2 years I am fed up with this whole grieving crap. Your post reminds me how far I have come and to be kind to myself. Thanks
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