That's the kind of heartbreak time could never mend, I'd never walk Corneila Street again.

It seems I am not done, that I still have more to say.

Out loud, to myself.

The process of putting the words out there keeps me accountable to the feelings, reminds me that they are real.

My husband has been dead for 32 months.

There is not a thing I have tried that makes that fact less devastating.

I've cried, eaten, shopped, traveled, moved, therapy-d, run.

Some of it made me happy, for a moment, a few moments.

Some left me grateful, some regretful.

I keep wondering why I can't "get it together" like I was before. Why my tolerance for stress is so much lower. I knew I was not going to handle stress in the same ways I did before. But recently it's become so clear that my body and psyche are holding onto so much.

There isn't space anymore for what used to be a tolerable amount of pressure and stress. 

The anxiety attacks are back. The night panics. All the doubts about every decision big or small. 

The second guessing.

That one is the worst.

Most of my life I've been confident and assured. Believing I was right, almost to a fault.  Willing to go to the mat for my point of view.

Now, I gladly hand the decision making over to others. 

Now I wonder with every move, purchase, phone call if that was the right thing to do, say.

I'm sad about this for lots of reasons.

Mostly, I think, because he loved my confidence, that I was capable.

I'm not sure what I expected, why I expected that it wouldn't still be so hard. That I would still feel unbearable ache some days. That I would wake up some mornings so confused about where I am and why I am alone in this strange bed.

I thought my heart was healing, and I guess it is. 

But what I now realize is it will always be healing and never be fully healed.