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.