I’m upset about all the work we still had left to do.

I’m upset about all that was left to achieve, that can now never be achieved.

I’m upset about all the things I don’t know about, that he would’ve told me if we knew that time was up.

I’m angry that we argued a couple of years ago, and rather than really try to sort him out, I just focused on how angry we were at each other.

I’m upset that he had his phone in his hand, and that he might’ve been about to text me, to say he was short of breath.

I’m angry with myself that I backed off in the last couple of months because I was too busy doing other stuff or because I didn’t like seeing him like that.

I’m angry with myself that I didn’t make more time for him, that I felt like running his errands was a chore rather than something important.

I feel alone. No matter how many people are around to help and support me, and how much they are doing. At some point everyone will say the wrong thing and it’ll get to me. On some level I am letting people help because it’s what they want to do, even if I do appreciate the help.

I hate that everyone has to ask how I am or how I’m coping. I hate feeling like everyone is putting a time limit on how long I’m supposed to feel like this. I hate feeling like people think I’m taking on too much, when it’s stuff I want to do.

I just want to grieve. In my own way and in my own time. And if that means I don’t sleep well for a while or that I cry a lot, I’m OK with that.

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