How many grief stricken women does it take to change a light bulb?

I’ve had a rough weekend, topped off by an event I didn’t expect.  A simple task, one that should really go relatively smoothly, it doesn’t – and it results in me turning into a screaming, sobbing mess on the back step of our home.  I lie down, the screaming continues, I can’t breathe again.

It’s like I’m back to day one again, day one being the day that the police turned up at our door instead of him with his goofing grin struggling to get the key in the door in the dark, the day I found out that the man I loved was never coming home ever again.

I start to beg to the skies for him to come home, I beg, I plead, I writhe in agony and claw at my chest trying to rip my own heart out, I slap my hands on my forehead trying to snap out of it, between the screaming, the chest beating, the slapping of my skull, I’ve given myself a headache.

I feel like this is ridiculous, I feel useless, the gaps of time between these moments have increased but it doesn’t make it feel any less painful than day one. It’s not ridiculous and I’m not useless,  I just have to learn how to exist without him here to help reach the things I can’t reach, to help fix the things I can’t fix and to help open the jars I can’t open.

All because I can’t change one fucking light bulb.

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