And his heart stopped beating...
22 September 2012, the day my life ended. The great love of my life literally fell off his bike with a massive heart attack.
We only knew each other for 6 wonderful years and we were never able to live together fulltime, but we loved each other dearly, each and every day. For the final year I knew him we were able to be together halftime, and from the end of 2013 we were finally going to be together fulltime.
What regrets! I could have been with him fulltime from the beginning of 2010, but I let my fears and lack of self-confidence stand in our way. I thought we had another 10 or 15 years in front of us -- he was youthful for his age, active, fit, healthy, very positive outlook on life. No-one knew he had heart troubles, although the post-mortem found evidence of a previous, healed heart attack. He went to the doctor regularly, had blood tests, visited a cardiologist yearly (a left-over of the health benefits from his old job), even did heart stress tests. He wasn't even taking statins -- there was just no concern about his heart.
I adored him and he adored me. He taught me so much about love and life, about happiness and contentment, about the joy of being with the right person. Now I have to try and find a life without him. Everything is dark and painful. I'm so lonely. I am just lost without him. I find it horrifying that I could be alive another 40 or 50 years (I was much younger than him). I don't want to live at all! I'm only here right now because I couldn't find it in me to commit suicide. It feels like I am shouldering the pain of grief so that those who love me don't have to do so. It feels very selfish to me when they ask me not to die.
He was my world, and my world ended when his heart stopped beating.
His family were all in another country when he died, so I had to organise everything, the funeral, cremation, taking the ashes home, the whole nine yards. I even had to "do" the entire funeral, since there was no-one else there who had known him. I had to be strong, to honour him and what we had meant to each other and to do what was necessary for the family. I was so busy that first week, I hardly had time to cry. The first time I saw the funeral video I burst into tears -- the tears I should have been crying on the day itself.
As soon as the funeral was over I shut myself away for 40 hours, fasting, crying, talking to him, sleeping fitfully. I needed to "mark" the event and the beginning of my life without him.
I cried every opportunity I had during that first month. I learned things about tears that I never knew, that I could cry so hard that my facial muscles hurt from the contortions, that my tummy muscles could ache, that the tears could be so big that they rolled down my face and completely wet the front of whatever I was wearing, that I could cry for half an hour at a time till I was so wound-up that I had trouble breathing. The foetal position became a too-common companion. I couldn't believe the intensity of the pain, but I felt strongly that if I didn't enter into it, I would be dishonouring his memory and our love. I simply had to go through it and hope that I would come out on the other side of it one day.
Now it's almost 4 months since he left me, and I'm trying to pick up the threads of my former life. I have no desire for any of it, but I'm sick of mooching around not achieving anything with my days. I'm not that sort of person. It still hurts just as keenly as it did in the very beginning, but I'm trying not to cry any more. (Though I still do -- right now, for example) There has to be an end to this! I can't do this for much longer.
I've asked him twice now to come to me in my dreams. The first time was the very first night. I said to him, If you're out there, please come to me in my dreams tonight, tell me something that I will know to be true but which will surprise me (to confirm I'm not making it all up), then answer the questions you know I have about your death. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Two nights ago I asked him to come in a dream and comfort me. Nothing, again. Is he really not out there? I can't bear the thought of never seeing him again. I've had dreams that he's been in, but not on either of the times I've asked him to come to me.
I feel like, despite all that I have done to try and grieve him as fully as I can, nothing is working. This just isn't getting any better. I am still just as lost, it still hurts just as much and I'm still just as desperate to go and join him. All that's changed is that now I know suicide is not an option for me -- much as I would love it to be. I'm no further along the path to getting over this than I was at the beginning. I doubt I will ever be OK again.
The mere idea of being happy strikes me as bizarre. I'm a black hole for happiness. I once asked him what was the difference between pleasure and happiness -- he said, pleasure is what you get during the event, happiness is what remains after the event has finished. Well I have pleasurable experiences now, but nothing ever leads to happiness, I'm so unhappy that pleasure just never translates into happiness.
I know he would want me to get through this, to be happy again, I know he would want me to live my life to the full. But I also know that if the tables were turned, he would be just as lost without me!
Nothing matters any more. My world ended last September.
It's so good to find a site where there are other people going through the same hell as me. I have fantastic support from friends but it's not the same. Just to be able to read other peoples' stories is so amazing.