But they never ask that. So I pretend not to notice and just say "Fine" or "Good" or some other inanity because I really don't want to start crying.
And yes, I am still crying. The frequency and vigor are somewhat surprising. I would think that by 2 1/2 months later, I could begin to taper off.
During the week is generally okay. Work, meetings, classes. But come Friday night and the gaping empty wound of the weekend, well, that is a different story. I spent most of Saturday night covered in tears and snot. Is that what my sister would have wanted for me? No way. But this is my grief, dammit, not hers.
I still don't really want to go out, see people, do much. But I do because the alternative is to be here with my own thoughts, which are sucky and dark and so, so tiresome.
Heather B. had a great post about this the other day:
It’s hard for me to be accepting of anyone’s friendship or caring during those moments because while I appreciate it, it all ends up suffocating me to a point where I shut down and disappear into my bedroom for a weekend. Only to emerge for the occasional cupcake and Trader Joe’s, while I continuously pull the “I’m fine” bullshit. This eventually turns into vitriol that I never thought I could or would be capable of and the cycle perpetuates itself until I can regain some control. I’m a person destined by neurological defect to be unhappy and during the really unhappy times, I figure I’d spread the joy of my unhappiness to others.I understand exactly what she means.
If I had any advice to give people, it would be: don't let your loved ones die. Ever. Because it just isn't worth it.