If you didn't know, you might not know.

So here's the thing. I'm still cut in half.

I'm doing really well, so if you didn't know what happened, you might not know anything  happened. 

I would imagine the experience of losing my husband is similar to the experience of losing a leg in some kind of terrible accident.

At first, there is crisis mode - stop the bleeding, keep your heart beating, keep breathing, survive. Just survive.

Then there's recovery mode - Learn to walk, deal with the emotions, get yourself back to a state of functionality. 

Then there's the rest of your life. You will never be as you were before, but you overcome it. You learn to get around without assistance and most folks you interact with don't even notice a limp.

If you don't tell them, they'd never know. 

That's kind of where I'm at. I've lived every single day since June 13, 2015 missing my best friend and soul mate. I will live every single day until the end of my own life missing him. 

I've recovered, but I'll never be healed. 

I'm not unhappy, but I am sad. I'm not in pain, but I hurt. These are constants. They don't go away, they won't go away and there is no point dwelling on it.

So I have this secret life of grief and, for the most part, I'm ok dealing with it by myself. I don't need help. I don't need sympathy or advice. In fact, I find sympathy and advice a bit condescending. 

I just want to acknowledge that it exists.

The day we traded my G6 hard top convertible
for a  hunter green Subaru station wagon. Meh.