peaks and valleys

The grief rapids are strong today.

I spent a week at our house and then sold it to strangers, I had a visit to stay with Pete’s family for a few days, we had Axl’s 5th birthday party – his first without Pete, I had to go rearrange some of the things that the movers put in storage and see everything we own piled like a mountain in an old barn, I’ve moved in more things from our old life, my mom had to put down her 14 year old dog.

I’ve gone weeks without crying. Actually, over the past few months I’ve done very little of it. I’ve attributed that to the anti-depressants. I’ve been in so many situations lately where people are being vulnerable with me and opening up and crying, and I’ve felt completely closed off. I feel empathetic, but it’s like I’ve closed off my emotions to survive all I’ve had to endure lately. I am treating myself with kindness, I am taking care of myself and my kids, I am practicing gratitude and making time for my hobbies, I am keeping our space clean and organized. We are objectively doing well. We are happy and healthy. But I do think functioning at that level does come at some kind of cost, and for me that manifests as having to put my emotions on the backburner. It’s not always the healthiest, but I’m doing my damn best.

But now, in these quiet and lonely moments, I find myself weeping. Last night it was after coming across the “Because I’m Your Dad” book, and I had a visceral flashback to all the times we read it to Axl. Thinking about Axl and Pete’s bedtime routines is still a bruise that is too tender for me to touch right now. One of the biggest sources of my pain is thinking about how both boys are missing out on those special moments with him. I can’t believe my kids just… don’t get to have a dad for the rest of their lives. It’s so fucking unfair.

Then, I’d been organizing my inbox at work and forwarded to my personal email the condolence emails I’d gotten so I could unflag them. When I later checked my personal email, I couldn’t help but open them and read them again. The one from the Rabbi at work (we’re a Kosher establishment, so we work closely with a few Rabbis to make sure we are always following proper protocol), always sucker punches me. He wrote all about how he only knew Pete casually and occasionally at work, but over a long span of years, and how it was so clear how honored Pete was to be a husband and father and how touching and unique that was. He suggested that although it was terrible Pete died so young, perhaps he achieved what it takes most of us a lifetime to figure out. Pete knew how to hone in on what he cared about, and he knew how to protect what he cared about with every fiber of his being. Attempting to live life like Pete did is one of the best things I can do to feel like he’s still here with me.