five hundred twentyfive thousand six hundred minutes

One year is a long time, but too short. Tomorrow it will be one month since "The Other" departed the mortal plains. I can't imagine a harder time in my life. Even the month I spent in intensive care fighting daily to survive seemed comparatively easy. Every other rough moment of my life has been fine, has been manageable, has had the feeling of "I will get through this" behind it. But not this. I find myself at his grave at odd hours of the night and day. I find myself longing to stay asleep so I can dream he's still beside me. I find myself breaking down when I think I'm finally doing ok. Without him telling me it's going to be ok, I don't know that it will. I find myself holding his necklace like it's the only piece of him I have left.

"The Other" induced feelings in me I didn't know existed. He pissed me off like no one else, he hurt me like no one else, he touched me like no one else, and he loved me like no one else ever has or ever could. It's hard to believe that anyone is able to survive a month with a wound this large in their soul, especially when what has always been the part of their soul that gets them through it, is the part that is gone.

I plan to spend the one month anniversary with his headstone. It won't really be the same, but perhaps I'll talk to him, perhaps I'll tell him everything. And perhaps just perhaps, it will help stanch the flow of pain for a while.

"The One" has been trying so hard to help. He's been extra kind and told me over and over that he wants to help. And as wonderful as "The One" has always been and as open as our communication and sex has always been it really isn't doing much for me. I know he cares and he loves me and he hates to watch me hurt. I love him just as much back and I hate to have to make him watch me hurt. "The One" and I talk, but it's never been the fanciful things of dreams that will never be, of realities that were never real, or of deep philosophical topics which don't in anyway affect our day to day lives. Those are things that "The Other" and I discussed on a regular basis, and I find I don't have that with anyone else. It just flowed with "The Other" It was never strained and almost always entertaining. There isn't anyone who fills that for me. Maybe it's time I become more practical.

Speaking of more practical, there is a female of note in our lives. She and "The One" started talking online several months ago. We went and met her, she's been up to visit three times since. Unfortunately, it's not going all that well. She has issues that she hasn't worked through that I'm fairly certain I don't want to take on. And I find it very alarming that while I feel like I know her as well as could be expected on a fourth date, she feels like she's in love and ready to move in. She's a charming lady with lots of energy and enthusiasm for lots of projects, and she's fun to talk with, but I think she might be better suited as someone else's lover where she can be the primary, somewhere she can get the love and attention and soul mate with the intense passion she deserves. I could easily see being her friend. I think she'd be a joy to have around, but I'm nowhere near ready for the time and love commitment that she craves.

I spend years writing and recovering from the last big wound to my psyche. And even that I only felt I recovered from because "The Other" was there to talk to each night, to discuss unrealistic things with in the depth of the morning hours when one's mind naturally turns to deep discussions and self discovery. He let me talk them all out. He let me ponder things a sane person would have me committed for. I wonder how long it'll take to heal this wound in my soul, or if it can ever be done without him.