The man I thought I was going to marry suddenly became very ill, was hospitalized, diagnosed with a rare auto-immune disease that could have dragged on for decades (when it would be discovered how to treat it with antibiotics), and drowned in his own blood from a lung hemorrhage. He was 25. It took me two years to get past what you have been going through, which is about average for a recovery rate, I hear. (Since then, I have learned to help some people who are unable to escape vivid memories; it has to do with their audio-processing deficits that usually respond to high-frequency music. I also learned to cure mental illness with music and wrote the book on it.) Then, I met a man whose almost ex-wife had shot and killed the woman he thought he was about to marry when their divorces were finalized. I understood at least half of his trauma, which opened the door to much more shared interests and experiences. We married nine months later. We celebrate our 40th anniversary in December.