I didn't think losing him would be so hard. I thought, foolishly, that I was level-headed and realistic enough to deal with it when he finally did pass away. I knew that I would miss him terribly but I could have never been prepared for the nearly constant feeling of being sick to my stomach and the feeling of being so empty. I cannot write about him the way I do when I need to say something, to let it out. I cannot draw him or even look at his pictures for long. I can't even bring myself to voluntarily remember him much. I am not dealing with this well.
What I see around me seems so petty, so ridiculous. You've got a paper cut or you're late for work or you heard that someone said something about your friend of a friend and you jump up to champion them-over the internet of course. The silly complaints and complete selfishness. It almost distracts me. Almost, but never enough to do the job.
I don't know how I am meant to behave. I never feel right, as though each situation I am in doesn't mean much, the outcome doesn't matter either way. I am uncomfortable, I suppose, and I do not know what it means.