Today marks two months. In terms of significant anniversaries, it’s not. There are three groups of people who keep track of two-month anniversaries: teenagers in love, people trying to maintain sobriety and those who have lost someone they love.
During the last two months, I have done my best to lean toward the positive, to search for the redemption, to make the best of what is absolute bullshit. I’ve decided that today – two months – I don’t have to. I suppose that could be considered a warning.
Now, to be fair, I’m not about to fly off the handle. While my mind is deeply rooted in a bedrock of logic and cynicism, my heart has always been naturally bent toward optimism. However, my post today will probably not be heart-warming. It probably won’t make you smile or giggle to yourself. There probably won’t be a lot of sharing or emoticons. And that’s OK.
In the last two months, I have engaged with people at what is an unprecedented amount for me. I am naturally an introvert and a loner. I always have been. Conventional wisdom in regard to mourning, though, is that I should surround myself with people, so I have made a genuine effort to do this. I’ve given myself the ¾ rule, meaning that I have to accept 75 percent of the invitations extended to me. Prior to this time, my acceptance rate was probably closer to a healthy 6 percent.
In the last two months, I have gone out to eat with friends and family, I have had people over to my house, I have gone to other people’s homes, I have engaged in Facebook and phone conversations, I have gone to the movie theater, a concert and the GD rodeo. I’m fairly certain that I have shocked a few people who have fully anticipated me to say no to their requests.
I have done all of these things, and have had a good time, but I am still lonely. I am surrounded by wonderful, caring people, and I genuinely enjoy at least four of them (you knew I was going to make a few jokes). Whether with a small group of close friends or in the middle of a throbbing crowd, I am lonely.
The loneliness is not a problem to be solved.
I am lonely because Emily is not here. She has not been for two months, and she will continue to not be for the rest of my life. I know that this means I will be lonely forever. I also know that many of you will read that and be compelled to say something to the contrary. Don’t.
Emily deserves that hole that is left in my life. That Emily-sized crater cannot be filled with meals or movies or concerts or hobbies. It also won’t be filled with time. Two months hasn’t filled it. Two years won’t. Two lifetimes couldn’t.