I'm tired of wishing that the last two years hadn't happened.
Of course I couldn't wish the last two years away because they are years with Ray.
I'm tired of the contradiction.
I'm weary of impossibly wishing for George and Little Poppet and a bit more youth. The wishing takes so much energy and I don't have that much to spare.
This impossible wishing catches in my throat and unleashes a horridly panicky feeling through my chest and stomach. It's over. They are gone.
In six days it will be two years. How impossible is that?
Do I sound miserable?
Well maybe a little bit.
Misery is downright obstructive at the worst of times and bothersome at the best. So I put on my happy face and go about as if everything is normal and force the pretence into reality. Sort of.
I'm not sure there is such a thing as normal anyway.
I'm ok. I can still laugh. I can still get excited.
I just really really really miss the life we should have been living. And I'm still having a hard time getting used to the one we've been handed.
And every so often the façade slips and I'm in trouble if I'm not close to a source of tissues or a sleeve.