I wish that my grief could just kill me. Sometimes I think that it may. When I wake up in the nightmare that is my life without my partner of six wonderful years, who I thought would be my partner for eternity—without his bright, smiling face; without the comfort of our bed together; without the warmth of our meticulously constructed home surrounding us; without the rhythm of the routines that we shared and the "life worth living" that I had so effortfully constructed with him—I think that my brain may explode in despair. Yet it doesn't. How cruel it is that that doesn't happen. If I become upset enough, my brain may change channels to thinking about options for violently or chemically ending my life. Yet what holds me back, probably, is knowing that untimely death is not what I want: The happiness that I had with him is what I want. I don't know whether death would grant me that or something similar in another life. And I don't want to stick around here to continue to endure the emptiness of not having it.
Basically, I can't reconcile the happiness that I had and lost, with the misery that I now feel, with the hope that maybe possibly I could be as happy again, with the rage that leads me to consider suicide.