My husband Bruce died January 9, 2014. He was 62. Not a short or a long life. He died of agressive prostate cancer that spread into his pelvis, his hip, his back and caused a very active man to lose the use of his legs and to kill him in three years despite all the researching, arguing with doctors, treatments and support from family and friends. His last month was spent in hospice and I took a leave from work to be home with him. I miss him tremendously but I feel like I grieved so much while he was dying that I am empty. I am not angry. I am sad and wistful when I think of him. I do not blame God. I am still angry that he didn't have access to medical marijuana but that anger is being channeled into activism. I bargained with God before he passed. I offered my first husband in his place. I offered myself. Nothing worked so I've opted for acceptance. A friend told me I am intellectualizing the experience but I don't think so. I still cry. I cried as I cleaned out his clothes and gave them to a free clothing store. I cried when I paid off the mortgage and he wasn't here to celebrate. I cried when I sorted his books. I cried when I gave his car to my nephews but with each action I feel like he is right there, guiding and approving the things I do. I went back to work a couple weeks ago and am starting to feel that passion for working with food security that I placed on hold 4 months ago but I still feel something is not there--his love is still present. His cremains are in the library of our house near his favorite books. The girls, our two springers, are starting to heal but I don't know what is next. I have chronic clinical depression and can't tell them apart at this point. I've talked to the psychiatrist and psychologist and haven't raised any flags. My biggest concern right now is sleep. Some nights, if I take medication, I can sleep 12-14 hours. If I don't take it, I get 3-4 hours of sleep and dream and dream. Not necessarily good dreams. How do I separate the grief from the depression?