It’s been almost three months since Steve was killed.

That time has flown and dragged at the same time.

We’re reaching a point where most people have started to get back to their normal lives. I think a few of our friends might have even resumed cutting trees and splitting firewood.

But for the kids and me, there is no getting back to anything. Right now, we are the people we were before and we are the people we are now, and we’re still trying to figure out who we are going to be.

One hundred times a day, I find myself thinking … “the old Liz would have …” but the old Liz had a stable, secure safety net. It was easier to face a bad day or a failure when I knew someone else had my back. Everything was easier when I had someone to bounce ideas off or take a minute to blow off steam. The fact is that no matter how good your friends are, eventually, they’re going to get sick of having a Debbie Downer around all of the time.

First of all, just having me around is a reminder that bad things can happen to everyone. Oddly enough, people don’t like to be constantly reminded of that.

Secondly, I really struggle to have the kind of fun that we used to have, and being around me can just be extremely awkward. In the past, I may have tried harder to be polite, to be gracious, to worry about making everyone comfortable, but these days, I just don’t feel sorry if someone is offended by an off the cuff comment I’ve made or if someone doesn’t know where to look when I mention Steve.

Trying to slip into my old self sometimes feels hollow and forced. But since I haven’t really figured out all the new aspects of the new me, that doesn’t quite feel right either. Nothing feels right without Steve, but I know I have to start somewhere.

I do want to move forward, but this is different from any other challenge I’ve faced in my life. In the past, even when confronted with a difficult or upsetting situation, I could tell myself that it was only temporary. I’ve always followed a version of the Serenity Prayer, trying to change the things I can, learning to live with the things I can’t, and knowing when to pick my battles.

This isn’t something I can change, obviously, but the learning to accept this isn’t coming easily either, and every day feels like some sort of a battle that I have no interest in fighting. A recent conversation revolved around the importance of “self-care” and how when I don’t know what else to do, I should try to do something for myself that makes me feel better.

Unfortunately, over 19 years, most of the things I did to improve my mood involved Steve somehow, even if it was just random conversation in the middle of the night. I have been thinking back to the years before Steve, when I might spend the day in bed with a trashy romance novel, or take myself out to dinner and a movie. Those things aren’t exactly the easiest things to do with a house full of kids and pets and other responsibilities.

It’s also really hard to want to feel better when the person you loved the most isn’t here to feel anything at all anymore. I feel like wherever or however he is now, if he feels anything at all, it can only be anger and sadness, and that’s all I want to feel as well.

Even the kids have found my perpetual negativity to be too much. I suppose if I have their permission to be a little happy, it’s a sign that maybe I should lighten up just a little, but that is easier said than done.

I have been reading about old mourning customs, and I have to say, I kind of like the whole Victorian idea of widows wearing black and observing a specific mourning period. On the one hand, it solves the problem of having to think about what to wear every day, at least on the days that you make it out of bed.

On the other hand, it’s a warning sign to everyone you meet that you’re probably not in a great place and maybe they should avoid the black cloud if they don’t want to have their parade rained on. However, with two partially white cats, black is not a color that I want to be wearing much of these days.

Right now, the kids and their requirements are enough to keep me motivated to function, but I can feel my energy for their activities and my own enthusiasm for any of it waning. It’s hard to engage in busy work when my mind is either a complete fog or running one hundred miles a minute. It’s very hard to want to control everything and yet feel like I’ve never been less in control of anything.

One thing I am learning though is that there is no right or wrong way to do this. Other people certainly have expectations, and advice, and can relate how they’ve survived something similar, but no two journeys are the same. It’s a terribly lonely place to be, especially when losing your person is the reason that you’re in this place to begin with. It’s hard to help people understand that very little that they do actually helps. It’s hard to fake it until you make it, and to find out that you’re a much better actor than you suspected, and you’re not even sure if you’re faking it or if this is just who you are now.

Moving forward seems like an impossibility, but I’ve been doing something for the last three months. Maybe I haven’t been moving forward, but just treading water has to be enough for now. One of Steve’s favorite quotes, since he was a boxer, was the Mike Tyson one about everyone having a plan until they got punched in the face. I will think about the dark irony of that one at another time, but for now, it’s enough that I finally understand exactly what it means.

My new plan is either going to be fall down on the mat and give up, or try to get my head together and land a few punches of my own. Right now, I’m not really sure which way that’s going to go.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.