I need to get used to spending time with myself and enjoying my own company. I have always been an individualistic type person, enjoying quiet time to myself. I am not frequently bored. I can often find something to do or hold my interest. Being alone is not my problem. Longing for my friend is my trouble.
His companionship is missed on nearly every turn I take within our home. Sometimes I find myself opening my mouth to speak, halting midair to remember he isn’t around to hear my brief enlightenment or long explanation. With the more days that pass, I find more ways in which I miss him. I was accustomed to his interest in my life; from the mundane to the exciting. Now the mundane goes unnoted. And sometimes even the exciting goes untold.
It is a retraining that I find myself instructing; writing the curriculum as I go. Not a chosen course. Yet, a mandatory one. Aren’t these the worst kind? It always helps if we have some sort of buy in; at least we can con ourselves into believing that we wanted to learn what we selected. Maybe that is why I am not convinced that loss makes sense or that I can “teach” myself how to ease back into life. The only thing I am becoming familiar with is that life is now strangely quiet.