Words of My Own

I have struggled with words (among many other things) this week since the loss of my husband, lover, and best friend Ken. As someone who is accustomed to documenting my feelings, it’s been uncomfortable to be unable to access my “writing voice.” Clearly, I’m bereft. And aside from a loss of words at a loss in every way possible–except in that I’ve been bathed in love and support from the Three Families: my Birth Family, my Married Family, and my Chosen Family.

But as I was talking to my sister-in-law (Married Family)–who if I’d met under different circumstances would have been a friend (Chosen Family)–I talked about the disconnection I felt from my writing voice, but remembered the one line I’d written in my diary yesterday:

“My life won’t ever be the same–not because I’m without you, but because I loved you.”

And that sums it up. I know I have a long road of healing and grief ahead of me, but Ken was a role model for me in so many ways, he would have been happy that I wrote just one sentence that I felt was meaningful. He would have been happy that I talked with our Katie. He would love that all of our friends and family have surrounded me with love; that his mother, brother and best friend were there with me to witness his completion of this journey and the beginning of the next, and to love and comfort each other.

The pragmatic part of me knows I’m not the first person to lose his husband, but I know I’m the first one who has lost Ken. That makes me lucky in one respect, and cursed in another.

I love you, baby. And I’ll never stop missing you.

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Ron - the xanax diary

A blog about love, loss, healing and humor (in no particular order)... I grew up in a small town in Indiana. I was pretty shy and aside from occasional trips down the street to play with the neighbor kids, I kept to myself and our television set. I wasn’t a latch-key kid, but did spend considerable time with the television and found it to be my window to the urban world I found so fascinating. That was the impetus for using my imagination. When my two older sisters weren’t torturing me or using me as slave labor, I enjoyed many adventures, pretending with friends, alone or just pretending to have friends. Therein my love of writing was born.

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