Yesterday was six months since he's been gone.
It feels like six months. The time has gone by, I guess slowly. It certainly doesn't feel like yesterday.
The grief, thankfully, is less intense. But omnipresent.
We've gotten to the point that life feels back to normal, for all outward appearances anyway. School, work, vacations, soccer, gatherings...we're back in our family rhythm, which is nice.
But geez, it hurts.
Stupid to say, like I thought it wouldn't. Essentially, unless my mind is fully occupied, the grief sits on my chest so I feel it with every breath. I'm tiring of it.
I wrote, about a year ago, about starting an antidepressant, for my constant and worsening anxiety about his possible relapse. I took one for a few months. Strangely, after he relapsed I didn't need it anymore. The anxiety was gone.
I know what clinical depression is, and I don't have it. Anhedonia, poor concentration and energy, feelings of guilt or poor self-esteem, sleep or appetite disruption. I don't have any of it.
But geez, it hurts. I'm sad a lot.
But that's not depression. That's grief. I honestly don't know if antidepressants help with dulling the pain of grief. Or if that would be a good thing? But I am thinking about it again.
On a lighter note, I'm also tackling my bucket list. No, I don't have any foresight into my doom, but I'm not sure what the universe has planned for me, and there's no time like the present. There's a strawberry cream cheese coffee cake in the oven, I might start tackling the perfect pie crust soon. And Mr. Smak and I are about to take that grown-up vacation I promised myself, complete with a professional European soccer game. It's not EPL, but for me it counts.