A little over a year ago I came home to find my wife dead in our bed. I kind of want to tell what happened, but I also kinda don’t. I’ll just say that it was sudden and unexpected, and that it was a bad way to go. I’ve barely left my bedroom since. I sleep close to 12 hours a day, and spend most of my awake time in bed. I’ll go to the bathroom or the kitchen. Once a week I’ll leave the house to stock up on food and cigarettes and weed and even that, just an hour or two outside the house, provokes a ton of anxiety and is exhausting. And everything that happens, everything I do, reminds me of her. Put on some pajamas, remember that she bought them for me, break down and cry for a while. Make some dinner, think about how I’ll never eat her cooking again, throw the food in the trash and cry some more. Get in my car to go to the store, look at the empty passenger seat and yup, you guessed it, time for another crying fit. It hurts so fucking much. And, the thing is, I don’t want it to stop hurting. The only reason I haven’t killed myself yet is because of what it would do to my parents. I’m not sure they’d be able to get past it, and I can’t do that to them. But it would be so easy to just go and finally be with her again, and every day that I don’t feels like I’m betraying her, and the pain is just the price I have to pay for that. Living in a world that doesn’t have her in it is hard enough. But the thought of ever being happy again makes it so much worse, it’s like spitting on her memory. Lasting this long is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and it’s only getting harder as time passes. It’s barely been a year, I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to last the rest of my life.