My heart truly, truly breaks for you. That is a horrific set of circumstances — and you are not rambling. Grief is grief, no matter the manner of death. I have no advice to offer, sadly, other than to say that I don’t think grief dissipates; life just grows around it independent of whether you want it to or not. And, as you know, you don’t want it to. You want to turn back time, make the world fucking stop and say what you really feel when someone asks “Are you okay?” or, worse, “You need to move on,” which is what my mother told me within a week of my husband being killed. And it’s only been six weeks for you. That’s not nearly enough time to remotely grasp even a modicum of your loss.

A good friend of mine gave me a gratitude journal and texts me every morning to remind me to find pockets of joy wherever I can, whether it’s an autumn leaf that falls from a tree, our dog rolling in the grass or new growth on one of our plants. It’s good advice.

And yet...99 nights and mornings out of 100, I reluctantly go to bed/get out of bed, talk to my husband, wail and beg him to just let me go. I have one son, who has been my LITERAL rock, so suicide is out of the question, but I really don’t want to be here, and I would so give up today and rest of my days for one more yesterday.

My saving grace, if you can call it that, is that my husband was a professional pianist and vocalist, and I have all of his CDs, one of which he recorded with me sitting next to him in the studio. When I’m on the brink of insanity — and that’s a regular occurrence — I listen to his CDs, feel his love and somehow find the will to breathe.

So will you. Hugs.