Homesick

"When you lose your partner, you lose your intimate, domestic life. You lose the one who is equally committed to your life, present and future. You lose the intimate daily details of life. You lose home."

These aren't my words, but they are similar to things I've said.  When Brian died, I lost more than my husband; I lost my life.  People who haven't watched their spouse die can't really understand this.

We're expected to mourn and then return to life.  Go back home, go back to work, return to life.  But when your beloved dies, you become homeless.  You're home becomes just a house filled with souvenirs. You can't return to your life, because the life you knew has ended.

You have to discover a new reason to live, create a new home in which you can feel safe, open yourself to the possibility that you might someday find happiness again.

I can't feel at home in my house, but I'm not ready to pack up my souvenirs and move.  My life isn't here, but ours was.  The thought of moving is like walking away from everything comfortable, familiar and desired.

With Brian, home could have been anywhere.  On my own, I feel homeless despite the fact that I own a very beautiful home.

I don't know how to process these feelings.  I accept that Brian is dead.  I accept that that part of my life is over.  I know that he wanted me to be happy and to allow myself to love and to be loved.  What I don't know is how to create a home alone.