My chest feels so tight, and I feel like I'm suffocating.

Next month will be eight years.
Eight. Years.

And how is it, that I just finished reading a book that reminded me so much of the confusion and loss and hurt and grief and anger and I still cry so easily over it?

And WHY do I feel guilt for how much this hurts?
Like I don't deserve to feel all the pain and hurt this brings up.
Like the way I'm reacting is that I was closer to her than I really was.

I can't think about it.
I never even really cried over it until my husband and I started dating.

That first year we were together...
One time I was at his place, and we were drinking hard cider together.
We started talking about things, about life.
At one point he said "Life is what we make of it.  It's what we choose for it to be."
And I said "I didn't choose for my grandma to die."

...and I broke down.

I started sobbing and he held me and he said "I know, baby.  I know."


That was the first time (apart from therapy) where I broke down in front of someone.
Because I trusted him.
And I knew he cared.


But every year it's the same.
July rolls around, and the month before, it's already on my mind, like a repetitive chant.
"Next month.  Next month.  Next month."
A reminder not asked for, an automatic alarm clock, counting down until the day of her death.

Replays in my head.
Of the last time I saw her.
Of getting the news at the camp I was a counsellor at.
Of breaking down into sobs before I make it to my cabin.
Of not being as ready for it as I thought I was.
Of sinking into this heavy grief.
Of purposefully missing her funeral, because I couldn't bring myself to be there.
Of my sister and I not being able to cry in front of each other, because we've never been open with each other like that.
Of the dreams I occasionally have, where I see her and she's still alive, and then I wake up and the hole in my heart is gaping.


I don't drink much anymore, but there's always this exception.
Because the grief is too much, and still raw and unprocessed and no one truly understands.
(Of course they understand.  They loved her, too.  She was a mother, a grandmother, she was the glue that held the family together.)


It is too much.
It is too much.