**My apologies for the raw and rude wording of this post. It’s been written in the heat of the moment but I feel it would lessen its ‘feel’ if I softened the wording. I hope no one is offended**

 There are times I hate him for dying. Two and a half years later and I could spit fury at his lack of care for his health, for his concern for our welfare, for his love for us.

I feel so lost still at times. So alone. So bereft.
I watch others who have found love again. I see those who have never lost theirs. The jealousy and envy I feel are almost tangible.
The agony of being half of a whole is so filled with melancholy….and at times, humiliation.
Who wants the damaged goods that a widowed mother of two has to offer?
The only people who offer their services as companion or ‘lover’ are either already ‘reserved’ or are the kind of human who would whack off on a webcam to an unsuspecting stranger in an attempt to get their thrill.
I am tired of the lack of touch. I could almost molest my hairdresser for gently brushing my hair – and she’s a pregnant female. I feel pathetic. And desperate. And furious at Jeff for causing this. Fucking asshole.