Since January, I've been thinking of (and speaking of, when I've had reason to) A as having been gone "almost 4 years." I've been preparing myself for the actual 4 year sadiversary, in a way, I guess, but mostly it's because I think it sounds pedantically precise when I say 3 1/2 years, or 3 years, 7 months, or whatever, like a 4-year-old who has to make sure you know she's 4 AND A HALF, or the short guy who wants you to know he's 5 foot, 8 AND A HALF inches tall, because that half-year or half-inch is meaningful. I suppose to them, it is. And I suppose to me, it is, too. I guess I don't want to get too precise when I talk about his being gone to others because I don't want them to know that I know exactly how long he's been gone; that I've ticked off every hour of it, one way or another. That would indicate that I'm not as fine as I appear to be.
It's not that I'm not fine. I'm pretty darn fine, actually. Surprisingly. And I'm glad about that. Glad I can function well and that I accept my life as it is and live it. That I've largely shed that nihilistic existential crisis that dogged me for so long and am just doing my thing without constantly questioning the point of it. Of any of it.
But still, my thought processes and pathways have been fundamentally changed in losing A and trying to revive myself in the aftermath, in ways I think would scare civilians if they were privy to them. I think they wouldn't understand that I can look them in the eye and be listening while having a mental conversation with A on another channel, or understand that I talk to him at all, let alone regularly. Maybe I underestimate people. But experience has indicated that I probably don't.
I don't know what I'm trying to say here. I guess it's that while I share anecdotes about A frequently even now, I don't much share my feelings about him and his death with anyone, except those who read this blog. I don't even know if it's as if I feel I can't, but rather, I don't want to. I don't want to be judged. I don't want to be doubted. I don't want to be wondered or worried about. I don't want to be pitied, either as the woman who lost or the woman who can't let go. Even if some of those reactions might not be entirely unwarranted. I guess what I don't want is any response that will not perfectly ease my heart and mind regarding A's dying, and since by now I've learned that that perfect response doesn't exist, I just don't want anyone to try and fail. Again.
Anyway, I am in the home stretch of this third year, and am on low-level alert for any emotional difficulties that arise in anticipation of this milestone. I don't want to conjure any up, but I don't want to be ambushed, either. But with this milestone, he will be gone twice as long as I was with him. Twice as long. And once again, I am shocked at how time can pass like this. I knew it was coming, but even so, it makes me shake my head. Seems like that's all I've ever been able to do about all of this.