My husband died of COVID-19 five weeks ago, at 37 years of age. Many times I wonder how my giant teddy-bear of a man with the massive beard and the rarely-heard but delightful laugh could possibly be dead.
One moment here, the next gone, at least in the physical sense. He was my buffer: my protection against my own obsessive mind and my deep depressive episodes.
For the past few years, everything had been going so well, especially around the holidays. We’d celebrate Christmas and I’d look around at my family, feeling the abundance, joy and love emanating from all of us, and I’d feel so grateful for my life and for how far I’d come, even with the constant struggle of mental illness.Read more on themighty.com