Alarm clocks

It has been so much harder than I expected. I assumed since we have been through losing a child we'd be old pros and breeze through this. I assumed since she was so small so would be the pain.
The days are long and exhausting. At night I am able to lay my head down to sleep. But the wee hours have to be navigated with caution. DH find comfort in touching my skin in the night. But for me that touch is enough to set off a landmine that can decimate sleep. I try to crush the thoughts with a pillow and can usually find slumber again. But mornings... Mornings are hell. The reality of living without her is my alarm clock. I can't hit snooze. It doesn't allow for a few extra minutes. It's deafening and demands immediate attention. Any extra minutes spent trying to ignore it causes sickness and anxiety. So the day starts. It physically feels like prison. Like this oppressive fog. It keeps me from understanding spoken words. It keeps me from forming words of my own. I can read my Bible but nothing is retained. The short term memory has me running in circles. Then there's moments when I find myself on the right side of the prison walls. I've found a task or purpose that allows a few minutes of freedom. There's fear of going anywhere. The landmines outside the prison. Running into someone who doesn't know we've lost and having to explain, running in to someone who does know and receiving condolences. Having a completely clueless person ask if your having a good day or if your doing anything fun. Do you face it and get it over with? Do you hide behind the prison walls until you're a little stronger? Worship music seems to bring more comfort than the scriptures that I can't comprehend. But inside the prison walls there's so much pressure and noise any more isn't welcome. In the moments I find myself on the other side of the walls the music can offer a little more free time but can occasionally come with an unexpected landmine of its own. Grief is an oppressive warden. I know I'll get out. And I know I'll be changed. It's always brought good fruit before but I always fear it's just going to make me so weird I'll never be compatible with other people again. I'm already so freaking weird. After Jeffrey died I just wasn't the same person and couldn't relate to the same people. Will I have to find new people again? For now hearing their troubles seems so rediculous and insensitive for them to even think of telling me about them. But how selfish is that? What are they supposed to say? I get mad when they talk and hurt when they don't. I want to be left alone but so desperately want someone to reach me. To be able to stick out their hand and actually touch the place I'm in. It's so lonely here. Please help.