My friend called me yesterday. “I, uh, just thought I’d call …” she stammered. I finished the sentence for her “… to make sure I’m not cutting into my arms?”
I’m not sure that she did.
The people around me are worried about me. I spent about five days walking around this world feeling so fragile that had I not looked in a mirror I would’ve sworn that I’d been walking around without skin.
I wasn’t happy about this breakup at any point, but in the beginning I could rationalize it. It’s so much easier to think through these sorts of things than to feel your way through them.
But grief demands its time.
Pretend there is a relevant subhead about grief here
This was a robust grief. This was the sort of grief that caused instant and profuse tears whenever I was alone (which included being alone in the front seat of the car while the kids were in the backseat, distracted by their kiddie world). This was the sort of grief that made it impossible to even pretend that I was OK, to my mother or to the grocery store clerk. This was the sort of grief that made it feel like a monumental effort to even stand upright.
I felt like God should’ve scooped me up in a soft blankie and cuddled me to his chest until I felt strong enough to face the world again.
But, as I told my friend, even at my worst I’ve got some sort of little brain defect that will never let me give up hope entirely. Perhaps that’s the equivalent of getting scooped up in the blankie.
I can talk a good game about how wrecked I am — and I can mean it — but there’s always that little tiny flicker of hope in my head that just won’t go out. There’s always that feeling that all of this is a learning experience and that I’m going to come out on the other side at some point and that there will be sunlight, peace and joy.
I’m ready for it.
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