There are many days, weeks and months that the grief that was born after Jeff’s death has crippled me. Days that no matter what I do, the sadness and loss steal over me and infect every thought and movement with pain. Weeks where I can feel nothing but the ache that has accompanied this journey and months in which the sorrow manages to reek despite all my attempts to banish it.
But I also have days where I am stuck, floating, unsure of any feeling at all. I know the pain lurks somewhere below. I am aware that I am hurting and broken. But I am unable to feel.

When the topic of Jeff’s death comes up for the millionth time to some stranger, I rattle off the ‘statistics’ of his death with stoic, eery calm. Often, the listener is in tears as I stare at them with the eyes of an emotionless observer – head cocked and wonder why they are so sad. I am a Vulcan.

For some reason unknown to me the painful stabs of loss don’t slice away at my heart at these times. I feel like an automaton moving and functioning but without a heart. I wonder if something is ‘wrong’ with me. I worry that people will mistake my bland and expressionless face for uncaring. I feel guilt for not feeling.

Is this a ‘normal’ part of grief? Do others have these moments where pain, and happiness, escape them? Is this is way to give my heart a rest? I’m not sure.

I do I know that I relish and abhor these moments simultaneously. To not have to hurt is bliss. But to not be able to feel sucks.

Who would ever think that I would wish for pain?