Life will never be the same

My partner was 37 when he died suddenly of a heart attack. He had not been ill, was physically fit, and his death was a huge shock. I have decided to record my feelings, in the hope that writing my thoughts may help make them easier to deal with.  I never thought that at 37 I would need to deal with the realities of life as a single woman again. So, here goes nothing!

Monday 11th July

It’s been seven months and 9 days since Phil died. Today has been a difficult and emotional day, probably not helped by crying myself to sleep last night and smoking way too much today. I am physically and mentally exhausted, and it takes all my strength to do simple tasks in work. But the hardest thing by far is that in the last week my mind seems to be letting me feel real pain for the first time since Phil died.

Until now, I have been going from day to day without being involved in the world, a strange disassociation from my feelings that my brain put in place to help me cope. I don’t know which is worse, a numb unreality or the intense physical pain that I am starting to feel.  I have an awful feeling of longing, a gnawing, intense ache for Phil, and a future that no longer exists. While driving home I had to stop the car, it felt as though I had been kicked hard in the stomach as the voice in my head that reminds me of Phil’s sudden death once again demanded to be heard. I have been ignoring it, but that internal voice is screaming and any minute I am afraid that the awful sound will become real, external, public, and will never stop. Sometimes I think it would be easier to follow him - if there is an afterlife, I can see him again, if not, then at least the pain will stop. Phil would be so hurt and annoyed at me for thinking dark thoughts. He wanted me to be happy more than anything, and I have to carry on for him and the dreams we shared. But it is hard. Life is shite and pointless.

I hate coming home to an empty house, but also need to be at home, safe, secure and surrounded by our things and all the memories they hold. The oak cabinet that we found in a junk shop, a solid, heavy piece of furniture that made Phil’s knees give whenever he tried to move it…the small occasional table with twisted legs that he loved…the handmade leather sofa that we found in a showroom for a bargain price, with aged leather so it would hide the cat damage that was sure to happen…his 1930’s leather topped desk where he made his music…the bits of “tat” that Phil teased me about, the bits and pieces that made our house our own. He loved this house, and I loved him for making it our home.

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