One of the least attractive facets of grief is anger.
I am consumed by the total, gut-boiling fury that this has happened. That this is now part of the fabric of our lives.
I am angry that people can stand outside my hotel room and sing with joy, unburdened by the knowledge of the sadness lying on the bed upstairs.
I'm annoyed at people I don't even know. Families who relish in their happy children. Couples who coo over their newborns. Dad's picking their little ones up from ski school.
The whole thing, the whole indignity of these feelings, it makes me mad.
I could find a reason to scream at every single person I know. And it takes a mammoth amount of will to keep my lid closed.
I do not want to be here. I do not want to be this mean-minded, envious, grumpy, broken person. I want to be the old me. The one who was always up for a laugh. Who knew how to share a joke and would quite happily waste as much time as humanely possible just having fun. I want to be the me, who (I hope) everyone enjoyed being around.