and the world spins madly on

The Thing Is

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.

Ellen Bass

Day 30

It's beyond weird not to recognize yourself. I look in the mirror and have no idea who the sad girl is staring back at me. There are bags under her eyes, she's lost 20 lbs but not in a good way. In a sick kind of way. Even the bright color her eyes used to be are now dark blue and always welling up with tears. Her skin looks so pale. The lump in her throat is almost visible. Even the resting shape of her mouth is now sad, instead of blank. The light that used to shine through her of dreams and possibilities has been dimmed and is almost out. 

Here's what my days look like now. (note: the following is super depressing. I am documenting current horror in the hopes of notable future growth) I wake up a few times but don't get out of bed until about 3pm. Then, I usually pull myself up and stumble into the bathroom where I see that sad girl looking at me, with her sad eyes and dim light. Today I put on some of his cologne. I then try to eat something or at least have some water. I cry a little, sometimes a lot. Seven tissues later I'm numb and a bit in denial. I stare at our wedding pictures on the wall. I watch a few music videos about people who have lost people. Then, at around six or seven people show up, different people every evening. And they take turns trying to get me to eat something, playing with my hair while I sob, letting me rant about how unfair this is, showing me a funny video or telling me a distracting story. They leave around midnight, I go to the office. I stare at Mitch's computer and his phone we still can't get into. The chair he always sat in when I'd come in and bug him to stop doing his homework and hang out with me. He'd smile, tell me to sit on his lap. We'd talk for five or ten minutes and then I'd let him get back to it. I sit at my computer, looking up more sad videos or sad songs. I play the ukulele for a bit. I chat with widows online. And somehow, I'm up until 5am. I then force myself to go to bed where I stare at the same ceiling I used to stare at during my late night discussions with Mitch. We'd talk about our days, how crazy some people are, our dreams for the future. And we'd laugh. But not anymore. Now I always have the same thoughts staring up at this ceiling. How did I get here? How long before I can hug Mitch again? And tell him how much of a nightmare this all was? How long before I can tell him to his face that I love him and I am so glad we were sealed? How long before he can laugh at the pathetic mess I've been, and he can tell me what he would have done in my position? How long before our dreams get to come true? The dreams that didn't die with his last breath because they live on in my heart, and in his. And then I pray. Hard. Tell Mitch I love him and miss him so so much. Tell him to comfort me and help me sleep. Please ask him if he can stay a while with me, until I can eat and sleep and breathe. Help him send me messages. Please let me have a dream about him, if I can't be with him here at least let me be with him in some way. And then, somehow. I fall asleep. I wake up a few times to let out a few tears, but mostly I sleep. Last night, I did have a dream about him. We went on a date to the ice rink. Afterwards, I held him so close and told him every idea I had to save him. He kept shaking his head, I'm sorry Britt. That's not going to work. But you can't die, Mitch. I can't do this without you. He just hugged me close and said nothing. So I woke up, feeling hurt and abandoned. And I start all over again. 

My sister in law recently gave me this mantra to help me keep going through these dark days: 

God is real. 

He loves me. 

He has a plan for me. 

Everything is going to be okay. 

And I add: 

Mitch loves me. 

He wants me to be happy. 

What I can do today is enough. 

Mitch is proud of what I can do. 

He'd suck at this, too. 

"Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces. We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again. 

We will all have our Fridays. But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come." 

 Elder Wirthlin

Always Fixing Something

I connect with music and dance on a spiritual level. I shared this on FB a little while ago and have watched it about a hundred times since. I honestly feel like Mitch sent me this video.

Here's my breakdown: In the beginning, the girl symbolically can't get out of bed. Oh, how I have felt this. She's stuck until the guy rips the sheet off and helps restart her body. Even the way he rips the sheet off her reminds me of Mitch. There were a few grumbly mornings that Mitch did this to me so I'd get out of bed (I'm definitely not a morning person). Mitch never did things without purpose. I also relate to the intensity in the guy's face and how much Mitch wants me to be able to live again.

Throughout the video, I love how dirty the guy gets trying to lift her up. It reminds me of how Mitch would do anything to help me. I also think about Mitch's complete disregard for wearing any particular thing to complete any particular task. He wouldn't think twice about getting under a car in a suit or building a table in whatever new thing I bought him.

Mitch and I had a conversation a little while ago about this song. I asked him, "Do you have a song that makes you feel like you can do anything?" He shook his head, didn't care for music the way I do. He stuck to Andy McKee and Jack Johnson, just for background noise. I told him how the instrumental part of this song was that for me and then made him listen to it super loud. I cried the first time watching this video when, during that part, the girl is smiling and running. I mean mayyyyybe this video wasn't created especially for me...but I'm pretty sure it was ;)

I love the side by side dancing, just after the running part. It makes me think of how Mitch and I are still accomplishing things together, just on either side of the veil. And how happy the dancers are! I want to feel that same enthusiasm for the work I still have to do here. And the connection they still have the whole time. I love it all.

I love that they are wearing white. I love that she's wearing red lipstick. I love that her white dress is a high/low like my wedding dress. I love that part she runs at him (2:59-3:01) and completely trusts him to catch her. I love that he helps her walk. I love that he carries her. I love that he leaves her where she started, but completely changed. I love the beautiful lines. The power and strength in their bodies.

Thanks for sending me this video, Mitch. I love you.

Day 24

February 25, 2016. 

The day time froze as I knew it and my heart shattered into a million pieces. I've been trying to even grasp the magnitude of what I've lost these past few weeks but it's impossible. Every moment since has felt like being held underwater. Every second since that night my body has resisted simply existing.

I was hoping to use this blog to document the house we were going to work on this summer, trips we were planning on taking...but instead I'll be using it to catalogue my grief. I hope to be able to use this spot as a tool toward healing, and if I can speak to anyone else who experienced great loss -- that'd be a bonus. For those who have never lost, maybe it can be a window into the souls of us who have.

Grief has so many physical effects I was not expecting. Exhaustion. To the millionth degree. It feels like I've spent the last three years in space and my muscles forgot how to function. Walking is painful and arduous. I'm never hungry. My heart has been pounding in my chest since that night, which makes it physically ache. I sleep at the weirdest times. I get hot flashes. I always have cold hands and feet.

I find myself doing things I've never done. Crying. all. the. time. Sleeping with a stuffed animal. Praying in the shower. Singing to purely drown out the relentless onslaught of depressing thoughts.

Every minute I would have a new thought of something I'd never have again in this life. Which feels, let me tell you, devastating doesn't even begin to cover it. The losses are big and small, but they each feel horrible in their own way. I'll never cut Mitch's hair again. I'll never be pregnant with his child. We will never play Mario Kart again. He'll never tease me about my apple products. I'll never cook him dinner again. He'll never walk through the door after a long day of work, smiling and tired. We won't go biking again. I can't call him. We won't go to dinner again. We won't hold hands in the temple again. We won't go to another sealing together. I'll never see him smiling across a room at me. I'll never get to see where his career would have taken him. I'll never see what an amazing dad he would have been. It's crushing. It's all so crushing. I keep feeling like the weight of it all will absolutely flatten me. And yet, I keep breathing. My heart keeps beating. Even when I beg that it wouldn't.

And then there's the triggers that make my heart drop. Old couples holding hands. A dad throwing a baseball to his son. Pregnant women. Husbands with their arms around their wives. Ironically, all things that used to make me smile and hope.

Here's the only thing keeping me from jumping off a cliff or drinking bleach: my faith. I know Jesus Christ came to this world, felt every pain -- felt THIS pain -- and died so I can live again. With Mitch. I believe in the sealing power of temples. I believe there is nothing that can take away the love that Mitch and I have. I believe. I believe. And I know.

I thought I knew before. I thought I believed before. I know now in a way I can't express. It's not just the hoping kind of knowledge. It's not just nice things we tell ourselves to deal with grief. It is real.

The day of Mitch's funeral was the hardest day of my life. It was like living an actual nightmare. The memory of how perfect he looked the day he proposed on Utah Lake still fresh in my mind and here I was, staring at his casket. It's not something I can wrap my head around, even still. I was a sobbing mess at the cemetery. I cried the whole way to the church. I laid on the couch in the stake center, holding myself and crying just moments before the service. My grandma was stroking my hair, shaking her head and crying. My in-laws had planned a family prayer just before the service started and I remember stumbling into the room, numb and barely conscious. My dad asked if I wanted to say anything during the program, I had already decided in my mind that I had said enough at the memorial service in Utah and Mitch would understand if I had to bench this one. Miraculously, I felt complete peace drape over me and I nodded.

Was I still numb? Should I have agreed to do this? Was I going to deeply regret this?

I can't explain what came over me. I felt that my family beyond the veil were there, lifting me up and whispering peace into my heart. There. Is. No. Other. Way. I. Could. Have. Done. It. I can't emphasize that enough. After some really sweet talks from Mitch's family, it was my turn. I hate public speaking. My heart pounds outside of my chest and I have the worst anxiety about it. Maybe it was that my heart had just been constantly pounding so I didn't notice, but I felt completely comfortable getting up to the pulpit. My mouth opened, and Mitch's words came out. I stood tall and confidently. My voice shook a little but I didn't cry. I looked at all these people who Mitch loves and I bore my testimony of the reality of the gospel. My knowledge of the atonement and God's love for his children. I said that I knew I was a daughter of a Heavenly Father. I said that dark places can be penetrated by the light of Christ. And then I sat down and I knew Mitch was proud of me. I was a vessel that day. I had a message from heaven and I delivered it. It was the strangest most tranquil feeling.

And somehow, I know I'll be okay. It will definitely take time...but I have moments of hope. And that has to be enough for now.