Oh shit.

It's a blunt title I know, but there's no other phrase that covers it really.  Exactly three hours into being back home without immediate support I found myself on the kitchen floor in full meltdown.  Gutteral sobs, silent screams, clawing the air, the works.   I'd hoped it would hold off until tomorrow when Oliver is back at school. Thank goodness for You Tube Kids.  Bethel music was playing on the echo dot; as they sang about hope rising from the ashes and raising hallelujahs I was raising wordless groans.   I've swung fully back to intense grief.  My husband is gone. Forever. It's horrific.  Totally horrific.  How the hell am I meant to be normal, to live a normal life when life is anything but normal? 

A few days ago I was thinking work would maybe be OK later this month.  Perhaps not. 

I've yet to open the 2021 gratitude jar. I know he put a few things in there......we should be reading them as a family full of hope for 2022 including hope for a new baby.  My facebook memory this morning was about being thankful for sunny January days that allowed me to do long bike rides.  I remember thinking as I posted it that I hoped to be pregnant again when the memory came up so I wouldn't be doing bike rides any more.   I've lost so f-ing much.  Reality and dreams.  So has Oliver, but he is too young to really realise the magnitude of his losses just yet.  We have that realisation to come in future years.  I could just scream the house down.  I want to climb a mountain and scream at the top of my lungs.  

Those intrusive thoughts are back too.  I know how to keep myself safe, but I hate them. I hate feeling this way. I just want the pain to stop.

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