There are words that I understand now, that I didn't before.
Pining.
Keening.
Wanting.
Wishing.
Keening. That, I think, is the tiny puppy noises I make, from the back of my throat, on the nights when I sob and sob. When my lips curl and I rock back and forth and weep for the man I love.
That's keening.
Pining? Pining is the feeling that directly proceeds keening. Pining is a deep, almost whimiscal ache for the most divine love you ever knew. For the happiest you've ever been. For the man who portected you, who knew you inside out, who made the world a better place to be.
That's pining.
Wishing. That's a deep pain, a searing one. Wishes are not fairy things, not light and whispery to float in the wind. Wishing is the desire to turn back time, the feeling that you would trade antyhing to do those few minutes again.
And wanting. Wanting is so simple. I want. I want this to have never happened. I want my husband back. I want my life back. I want one more cuddle from big, strong, soft, delicious smelling arms that wrapped me up and loved me to pieces and shut the whole world out.
That is wanting.
And the oppisite, if wishing,of wanting?
Despair. Heartbreak. A huge, cold, all consuming vat of pain and hate and rage and disbelief.
Despair. Heartbreak. Unfathomable emotions. I still can't quite get my head round this. How did this happen to my life? This happens to people I do not know. This happens on blogs I used to drop by, read once or twice, then leave. Because the depths of their despair gave me panic attacks- how would I cope with that, if that were me?
And now I know. I cope, because time goes on and i fucking have to. If there was a legitimate option to coping, something else i could do, I'd do it. I'd take it. Unmedicated childbirth, one hundred times over. My face, my body. Anything but my children. I'd trade it. For just one more minute.
The very depths of wanting, of wishing? That's hoping that somehow the universe is able to spin itself backwards, that time is not a continuim, but that it can fold back on itself, and mistakes can be undone. Moments can be re-lived. And appreciated all over again.
And the very depths of despair is the knowledge that you are kidding yourself, that wishing and wanting only hurts, that this is it.
This is real. This is my life. My husband is dead. I am 29, and I have two tiny children. He hung himself in front of me, in a moment of madness that was so not himself, so not the Tony I know and love.
Or, as the case may be, knew. And loved.
Fuck.