I miss not having all my stuff with me and I'm not talking about 'my' stuff, I mean our stuff, stuff that Dave and I bought together, things that remind me of Dave and things that remind me of my life with him. Most of the things that we had (and that I wanted to keep - which isn't a whole lot), are being sent over on a ship and aren't due to arrive here until mid to late December. I have 2 suitcases worth of clothes and things that I brought back to Australia with me and although it includes two of Dave's shirts and one of his jackets, it's not enough. I want the photos of Dave and me, the photo collages that were made and I want him.
I know it's not realistic. I continued reading the book "Good Grief" by Lolly Winston and read this bit which really expresses how I feel:
"What I really want is some sort of "It's okay, I'm here" sign from him. The worst part about grief is that it's so one-sided, so unrequited. Lost loved ones don't reciprocate, when you get right down to it. You try to convince yourself that they do. But [Dave] hurts me every day with his indifference, his aloofness. I pray, I journal, I speak to him. Not a peep. He's like the popular kids in high school, breezing by in a flash with no eye contact or acknowledgement of my existence.
I flop back against the pillows, irritated. The nerve of these dead people!.. What do they have to do that's so important? Sure, you're dead. But there's such a thing as manners, The lengths I've gone to: the flowers tossed into the sea, the candles burned, the photo albums. The shrink visits, the grief groups, the antidepressants. Nothing from them."
I understand that feeling. It's not fair that I have to keep moving forward shrouded by grief. It's not fair that I have to do this on my own without Dave's support and without Dave reassuring me that he loves me and wants to spend the rest of his life with me. When (assuming I do) I get through this season of grief, he won't be there (unless I've died) to cheer me and make plans with me. He won't be there to thank me for being there for him, for loving him, for doing things that remind me and others, of his kindness and integrity.
I want to move forward and make plans but I'm reticent because those plans don't include Dave. It's a whole new world out there, beckoning to me with long, bony, gnarled fingers, with hints of blue skies and beauty but it's luring me to let go of Dave, leave him behind so that I can walk forward. I still feel the tips of Dave's fingers touching mine, I still hear his whispers of "We can do this" but it's not 'we', it's me. I just want to turn my back on the beckoning, turn around and fall into Dave's arms and have him hold me like he used to and make me feel at home again.
I know that I can't do that so I slowly raise my hand halfway towards the beckoning, then drop it at my side again. I want more than just a feeling, more than just a thought, I want something real that I can touch, hang on to and aim for. Sort of like being in the water but having the shore to aim for, a jetty post to pull yourself forward when the current keeps trying to drag you back into the ocean.
When I have gotten through this season of grief, I want Dave to walk through the door, hug me and say, "Well you passed that 'test', you're stronger so let's get on with our life together again."
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