It has been two long years. Two years filled with misery and depression and sadness and pain. Two years in which I've cried almost daily, put on fifty pounds and sucked down a small fortune in pain-killers. Two years in which my house has gone to rack and ruin, in which over half the cats Jim left me with have either died or gone to live with somebody else, because even they can't stand to be around me. Two years in which my house has taken on an aura of death and decay, my finances have gone to hell in a hand basket, I've outgrown all my clothes, my hair has halfway gone grey, and the bags under my eyes from sleeplessness and crying have become permanent.
Two years. My friends and family have done their best to keep me going and remind me that I have a lot to live for. Two years of putting one foot in front of the other and trying to remember to eat right. Two years of laughing loudly at anything even remotely funny, because they say laughter is the best medicine. Two years of needing to fix a lot of things, and not having the means or energy to do any of it.
Two years of loving and missing Jim; of raging at his ghost, and of hating myself.