I feel like so much happened that it has been many months, not one. Maybe even years have passed in the last 31 days with how slowly I felt the movement of time. I am tremendously not ok and I have no anticipation of being so anytime soon. Pam worries a lot about me not feeling hope at this point.

In my relationship with Noah there was a fair bit of insecurity on both sides. We were both worried that the other wouldn’t want to stay with us. We need constant reassurance and it went in both direction. We never relaxed into feeling safe for more than a few minutes at a time. Luckily we loved giving each other that reassurance so we had good days more than not. Noah wanted me to live for him and that’s a complicated thing. There was always this balancing act. I don’t want to die because I don’t want to hurt my kids, but maybe I hurt them more by living. Maybe it would be better if I weren’t here. Noah wanted me to just stay alive for him and I certainly have so far but it was a thing that lived in the back corner of my mind: do I ever get to choose when I stop feeling pain?

Now I don’t. It isn’t a question. I must fight to live for as long as possible.

I wish the price had been smaller.

I cannot ask my children for reassurance that they really love me. It’s not ok. I say that I love them. They say it when they feel so moved. I can’t ask. It’s not ok. I am allowed to say, “May I have a hug?” That’s fine. I can’t ask them to prove to me that I have value. Not ever. That is going to be weird and hard. I am going to have to learn how to carry this giant black hole of pain without having anyone tell me that I’m great all the time. What I got from Noah during our marriage has to be what I get in this life. I can’t look for a replacement.

I am going to be my own source of reassurance and comfort and that sounds really sad and lonely. Literally, I don’t need anyone else’s approval. I am still Noah’s good girl and he gave me a permission slip. I get to be here. He bought me this house, which is not solely legally mine. He gave me three wonderful children who fill me with pride and delight every day. He got me out of the US.

It’s kind of funny. I have always told my kids that I can’t make sure bad things never happen to them, but I can be there with them while they go through it. Noah didn’t ever manage to make it so bad things never happened to me. Last year was pretty rough. I knew he would walk through fire with me if I had to go there. Now I am going to do an awful lot alone.

I am not going to be looking for an intense friendship for years. I’m going to make it clear that my plan is to continue to talk to people in Meat Life as if they didn’t know I was raped and my husband died last year. People in this town don’t owe me shit and messy displays of emotion are not done. I will keep it as low key as I can but holy fucking shit I’m going to cry a lot. I really can’t help it and I also can’t stay home until I get it under control. That would be really bad for me physically. I need to move more than that.

You store grief in your lungs. I do a fair bit of exercise. Yeah, there will be a lot of crying. I cried like a little bitch through most of yoga. He had just started coming with me to classes in November. There are so many layers of upset and shitty here. He was retiring to hang out with me.

I feel so empty. No, I don’t have any personal hope right now. Someday I will have hopes for my children but I don’t know what I will ever hope for again and that needs to be ok.

I am showing up. I am doing my duty. I am serving my indenture. I am talking to the kids about their hopes. I am talking to them about how as painful as this is–it’s an origin story and they have the vast majority of their lives to go make their life into whatever they want. I don’t have the vast majority in front of me. I have less than half of it left, in all likelihood.

One of my buddies shares my alphabet soup of genetic issues and has been sending me research. One of the tiny insignificant pieces of it is that one of the *single best things* for me to eat is: liver. Preferably lamb but beef is acceptable. Chicken isn’t ideal.

Do you want to know one of the only things my mother ever bullied and pressured me into trying? Fucking liver. “It’s good for you, Krissy. It will help you feel better. Yum, yum.”

I feel horrible for how I judge her. She did try and I was a really hard kid. I was super non-compliant and hostile and argumentative and demanding. Just like my kids. She lacked the wherewithal and resources to handle someone as challenging as me. Shit, I can understand that feeling.

I have a Valentine’s Day card in a box somewhere that I bought 18 years ago. It says something about how I turn more into my mother with every year. It’s the sort a daughter is supposed to give. I didn’t remember to give it to my mother before I divorced my family and then shit happened. I think it managed to get mailed across the sea.

I feel very temped to write in it that I have always loved her. Thank you for telling me to eat liver. Turns out you were completely correct.

I wouldn’t put a return address on the envelope or a phone number inside. It’s not an invitation to a relationship.

My grief is and always has been so very complicated. Am I ever just mourning one thing or does it bring the avalanche of mostly unresolved grief crashing down again. It’s never fully gone, it’s just in a box out of sight because it bothers other people. I sort of wonder if some day, after my indenture is over I will spend a whole year wandering around weeping for a full year because I have that many unshed tears hiding in me. I can’t let it out now. It’s not safe for me or fair to the people around me if I lose my shit right now. They need me to cope.

I feel like garbage. I feel wrecked. I feel empty and like I will never be filled again. A whole month without Noah. What a fucking nightmare. I never wanted this. I wanted to serve Noah for all of my days. I wanted more years of taking care of his gross feet. I wanted to chase him up the hill and yell “what?!” because he mumbles all the time. I wanted to properly explore Scotland with him. I wanted to adore him and bask in his brilliance. I wanted to talk him through the best ways to solve different social situations. I loved how much he respected me. I don’t think that is something I will ever feel again.

I am afraid that my ability to be an expert died with him. I required his confidence in me. I think I am going to contract in so many ways. I will never believe in myself the way he believed in me. Yes, I will be more timid.

I am so scared