Paul, 1992 - before bipolar
This is probably my worst day of the year. It’s Paul’s death day. And today it is twelve years since he died.
I’ve been up since 4:30 this morning, not even able to sleep in to my usual 5:30 or 6:00. I finally got up around 5:30 and went to the gym. That I worked out was a good thing. Working up a good sweat is always cleansing.
I also did a couple of things I’ve been meaning to do for a long time. I replaced his photo we’ve had fading on our mantle for the last twelve years with a new vibrantly colored copy. And, after Bob and I went to visit Paul's grave this morning, we stopped into the cemetery’s administrative office to make sure his gravestone is cleaned before our next planned visit on his birthday, December 31. Today, we saw a very dirty stone with grass growing over it. Still, as is our tradition, we each left a stone.
Other than that I am just hanging out – not doing much of anything. Not able to concentrate very well. But I didn’t want the day to go by without a post about him and how I feel today.
I also don’t want to forget all the love and caring that has come to us today from as far away as Berlin, Lake Oswego, and Cambridge England by phone, text, Facebook posts on my wall and Putting a Face on Suicide’s wall, and a flower delivery. I can really feel the love. And, it sure helps knowing that Paul has not been forgotten. I thank you all for that.
My sister-in-law wrote in an email this week that it doesn’t get any better. And she’s absolutely right.