I don’t want to mark this day each month. I don’t want to feel it approaching, anticipating the flood of emotions that will come whether I want them to or not. I want to go back, to return to when we celebrated with joy 16th of each month, marking the day we met that July.

There is relief in nothing, and I now know there never will be. I can feel other things now, I learned it is possible to feel other emotions alongside the sadness, and I am grateful for that. But missing you never stops, it never lessens, I think about you every minute.

I have engaged in multiple forms of therapy, joined new activities, made friends, reached out (sometimes desperately) to old friends and even strangers, withdrew, attended grief groups, talked with mediums, gone to church, and meditated. I’ve done EFT, been to energy healers, acupuncture, reiki, and sacrocranial therapy. I prayed for death for six months. I’ve drank far too much and too often, distracted myself, and kept endlessly busy. I’ve talked and written to you endlessly and cried rivers of tears…

Still everything is unbearable without you.

I want to go back to the time when 8 was my number – my birthday month, my numerology number, my race number – my lucky number. I hate that I mark this day each month as the day you died. I hate all of this.


I will lie

Know that when you ask me how I am, I will lie.

I am not fine. I am nowhere near that.

I don’t need fixing. There is no solution, please don’t offer me any. Things are dark, but actually they need to be dark now.

Please just be present for me. Please speak Albert’s name. Acknowledge that he is missing from our daily life, our parties, our trips, our lives our future…

Grab me and hold me tight enough so for a split second I don’t have to be the only one holding together a million shattered pieces of the whole I used to be.

Say, “I am sorry.”

Say, “I don’t know what to say.”

Say nothing.

What if..?

I was I asking the Universe “Why?” Saying to myself, “I don’t understand WHY the Universe (or God or life) would have me go through this. Again. I went through this once already and spent many, many years learning to be open to love again and the risk of it. Why would the Universe give me Albert, from whom I learned so much and who changed my life so completely, only to take him away one short year later?

And one possible answer that I had not considered crossed my path today. And it is this:

“Albert he wasn’t given to you for you. He was given to you for him. It was going to be his time soon and the Universe wanted you to be there for him.”

“The Universe knew no one could love him like you would and wanted him to have that kind of love before he returned home. He was given to you so that he could experience the kind of happiness that only you could have brought to him before he had to go.”

What if this was his life path – and only his?

What if I am still living my life path and this – his death – had and has nothing to do with me?

What if?

I know nothing

I did not think it was possible to miss you more. But this week, these days leading up to the holidays – I feel like you have been gone and you will return soon. It physically hurts knowing that won’t happen.

My body knows we should be in the mountains, in the snow, skiing, celebrating at your family’s place, together. My body is anticipating the drives up to the mountains, waiting for them. My body is waiting to follow you down the ski slope, press my cold lips to yours, hold hands near the fire, wrap ourselves in each other under blankets in the cold air of the cabin. My body reacts to a whistle in the street, as if it is you calling me to the balcony to say come on, let’s go….My body does not yet know.

My mind says try hard. Search for reasons to live, for ways to get through each day, each week. But I smell the snow, hear a whistle outside, and for a moment my body says I am ready, let’s go, until my brain can remind me: These plans will not happen. We will never make new memories, our future will never be.

There is no where for this energy to go. It comes out as tears, but it is still too much. No distractions help me, there is no relief. My world implodes and I fold up into myself until a long time passes. Sometimes it is hours until I can get up again. Until my body finally says yes, I see. I don’t understand, but I see how it is.

I only want to be with you, and people who love you.

I did not think it possible to miss you any more.  But I did not yet know.




I was lucky enough to be loved by someone I admired and respected. Someone who allowed me into his heart and mind, who shared his secrets, his pain, his ideas, dreams, his fears and so many things he shared with no one else in the world.

He forgave all my faults and mistakes with a smile on his face and love in his heart. He asked me to forgive his mistakes and let him learn from them. He actively asked for feedback on his progress. He loved me enough to be fully present, to show me the human being he was. I was so lucky for this.

But a bomb was dropped on my life and everything familiar, everything I thought I knew for certain and believed in, is now in shambles. I struggle to find myself.

I am rendered weaponless in the face of this sadness. There is no forgetting, moving on, “stopping” myself thinking about him (as if that were even possible). The pain of losing Albert will not just end one day. Time does not heal all wounds. It doesn’t ever end, I know. I learned to live with the pain of losing JM. Now I have to learn to live with the pain of losing Albert. It is the price I paid for loving him so much.

We were absolutely sure of each other. Two months into the relationship we talked about marriage. And from then on we only alluded to it because we both understood that the day he proposed would be a surprise.

Life was magic with him. I was lucky for this.

But life without him
is hardly a life at all.


I was at a get together at a good friend’s place last week. Toward the end of the night,  she shared a song with me and told me that since Albert’s accident, she thinks of me every time she hears it on her playlist.

The name of the song is Supergirl. Three of us listened to it together and hugged as the song ended. They said I am a survivor for all that I have been through, and even a fighter and for this I am a Supergirl. I found the song online and listened to it on my bicycle ride home that night, stopping when I could not longer see through all my tears and my sobs had me weaving.

I want to be this a fighter, to accept it is not my time and that I am here for a reason I do not yet know. I want to emulate those qualities in Albert that I admired and be a better person for loving him. I want to be strong enough to rise to this challenge and learn whatever lesson may lie dormant in this nightmare.

I want to be this Supergirl, I want to be her for my friends and family who wish the person they knew would return.

But that person I was will never return. What may seem like strength is merely the absence of a choice. I can put on a normal face and force a smile in public I can get drunk and dance. I’ve learned how to sob so hard in a restaurant bathroom that my spit and tears wet the floor and I can walk out moments later as if nothing happened. I can orchestrate dinners and events because I fear the void of loneliness will swallow me and anguish will annihilate me. I’ve learned to wait out the horrifying clash and collapse of myself, the earth, galaxies, all of creation – into nothingness, over and over. I can pretend there is some grand plan, some purpose or lesson, in this future that has been presented to me in a fucked up basket with a black ribbon.

I am fragile and sensitive and although I would like to, I help no one. I get upset at everything and everyone. I resist every step. I shouldn’t even be making decisions for myself. I’ve missed planes, left important items behind and lost many more, missed appointments, forgotten to pay bills, double booked appointments, screwed up work projects, made impulsive purchases for things I didn’t need, lost work and clients, communicated poorly with people I care about and made them feel bad too, and the list goes on.

I wish I could gather my broken pieces and form them into a whole. I wish I could see through the darkness in front of me. I wish I could feel the coming winter with anything other than dread and fear of its echoing loneliness, its constant reminders of what no longer is and never again will be.

I wish I could be Supergirl.


On the theme of Halos

Albert used to send me songs when we we apart in the beginning of our relationship – the very beginning, like half a week in, when we still had nights away from each other – and for the next month or so.

The very first song he sent to me was a remade version of “Halo” and quite a beautiful remake at that. It must have been after our third date.

I listened to the growing playlist of songs when we were apart. Halo was always my favorite. I sang it to him much later, perhaps a month or two before the accident. I sang it quietly one night in bed, as a way to express my feelings for him because I was bereft of words at that point. I looked into his eyes as I sang this song. His eyes shone with happiness as he returned my gaze. He immediately asked me to sing it again once I finished. He held my hands and kissed my fingers as I did.

The first thing I consciously thought of when I saw his body at his funeral service was this song. It played and played in my head.

Albert insisted–absolutely insisted–that he would never leave, that he would always be with me even when were are apart. I considered the significance of the name of this song and his promise to me.

I cannot bring myself to listen to this song again. I wonder if I ever will.