There is a year and a half, the man with whom I lived died while making love with me, lying on my body. He had an aneurysm rupture. I tried to resuscitate him but without success, and when the ambulance arrived, the paramedics could not bring him back. The doctor asked me to make a decision to stop or continue resuscitation. When I realized that he was dying, I wanted to offer him the most beautiful of death by letting him go. I was sure he would not come back.
I participated at all times until it was planted. I had lost five pounds in one day, my body was half paralyzed and I was suffering so much in this body that no longer obeyed my will ... And then the time has done its work, life has returned to its rights, I I fell in love again. But it was hard. Every time I made love, I was paralyzed, wondering if my new lover was not going to die too ... How would I endure it? I know it was stupid, but I could not help it.
I wanted the man who had left me to be proud of what I had done with my sorrow, this ordeal. And then, a year later, I woke up angry. A black anger! Why was not he dead in our kitchen, in our living room? Had he only wondered what could have changed in the life of the one who remains? During the year that followed, I wanted to look at things from the point of view of the soul, but I forgot that I am only human, just a 35-year-old woman who lost the man who was my best companion. Today, I'm angry ... Against the way he left, against what it causes difficulties in my life as a woman ... And even if the release of this anger is very painful, I feel that if I do not I did not accept it, and did not look at it in the face, it would be to die a little, to refuse the life to come.