Poor little me

Sometimes in the last four weeks since Ed has left us, I get these pangs of guilt when I am laughing about something or enjoying the moment. I suppose it’s rational given all of the things I have read about the grief one feels after a loved one has committed suicide, but I still feel awful about it. I’m sitting here, enjoying the fresh air or laughing about something funny that someone has said, and Ed is never going to be able to do that on this earth ever again.

A lot of people have reached out directly and indirectly to me, through Chris or my friends, to give their condolences. Today, I even received a sympathy card from my seventh grade English teacher, which was really sweet, especially since I haven’t even seen her since I was probably 14. I know that there is nothing that they can say or do to make things better, and although it is nice of them to acknowledge this at all, I’m not sure if I feel better or worse when people do this. I am happy that they said anything at all, but then the other part of me just feels like, oh, poor me. No pain I’ll ever feel will come close to the daily struggles that Ed faced pretty much his whole life. Now that he is gone, I feel even more helpless, as though I could have done more, but just didn’t know what exactly to do… And now, it’s too late. I really just hope that in his last moments, he knew how much I loved him and just wanted him to be happy. I always told him that. I hope he is happy in heaven now and drinking all the margaritas he never got to drink on earth.

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