I Don't Want To Be Happy

I've stumbled on a realization about my grief. I don't want to be happy. I don't want to be happy without MyJamie. I do not want to give in to joy if he's not with us. I don't want to plan a vacation if he's not there. If he's not packing a bag, or fighting me over the seat, or telling me he wants a snack in the car, then I don't want to go. If I'm not looking to see if the hotel has a swimming pool for him, then I don't want to go. I do not want to be happy. I would be content to live my life never being happy again instead of finding happiness without him. I do not want to take pictures at places without him, I do not want to buy souvenirs to remind me of places I visited without him. Hell, I don't want to put up a Christmas tree or celebrate my birthday if he's not here to celebrate. Exactly how do I manage a life without him? I do not want one. The acuteness and sharp stabbing of my pain seems to have dissipated some to the grief version of a low grade fever that doesn't go away. I don't want it to go away. Because I want to be unhappy in this miserable new life. Yet am I not in therapy - again! - for realizing this can't be the way to live. I can't support myself, my husband, our marriage, in this way. I stood in a Sam's Club just a few short weeks ago and completely left my husband while standing beside him. I was 100 miles away in a cemetery. I don't want to be happy. I need to find some way to be something.