Waves.

20130228-P2282416 by everydayjill

Damnations. I thought I was going to get it right on Day Fifty.

It's Day Sixty Three.

I am still drowning. Drowning. Damn it.

I keep meaning to start over each morning, to live each day to the fullest and love to the mostest because I get the chance to. And instead, I just end up trying to breathe. Living fully and loving- fat chance. I am doing well to inhale and exhale. And sometimes, I actually forget to breathe. Catch myself gasping, because I literally forget to frikking breathe.

I try to count my blessings- I know I have a lot. Best friends, the monkeys, their best friends, mountain trails, autumn air, pumpkin smoothies, pug kisses. But this, this sadness- it is a strong tide pulling me down deeper.

I am fighting it, but pulling yourself out of drowning is hard work. Harder than real estate or insurance or digging fencepost holes or catering. I am exhausted- mentally and physically. I never knew that drowning in sadness could actually truly hurt. Note to self, sorrow aches. Like running or squats or burpees, but without a single calorie burned. Cruel joke.

That is all, buttercups. No big epiphanies. Except that sorrow sucks. And I know I am not alone, but it still sucks.

Comments

  1. Nope. Not alone.

    But, know what you did for me today? Under the guise of sharing my immense been-there wisdom (insert chuckle and sigh here) and reminder of how I best and poorly moved through it when my Dad passed, went back to some old writing (a blog long since retired and existing only under private lock online and a printed pdf I keep meaning to return too, make notes on, send out publisher feelers for). Time will move you forward, ready or not it will. Promise. Thank you for reminding me.

    When The Man Comes Around (from January 15, 2008)
    I can’t get my hands warm. Since the news last week, my hands are in a constant state of cold. I keep the gas fire on until my small town home is nearly stifling, but my hands still tingle.

    Late last night, I goggle searched “death of a parent”. The most common signs of grief, according to some non-descript, almost flowery Web site I find (all these types of sites, btw, are either clinical or flowery in nature) are feeling alone, loss of appetite and not being able to sleep. Got it. Got it. Got it. Interestingly enough, when I have sadness or tears, I recognize I'm bemoaning what I lost; when I reflect instead on all that I gained in our relationship while time remained to do so, I'm at peace. It’s the extraneous that gets to you. Here’s some of what I’ve learned in the 118-some hours since my Dad died suddenly:

    As human beings, we should try to exude more basic warmth. The weight is easier when you feel the load is shared and understood and common to us all. Even gestures as simple as allowing a car over in the traffic lane, or asking someone with fewer groceries if they’d like to go first.

    There is no “right” and “wrong” way to grieve, behave or react when a living thing dies. We all do it like we can do it, whether as task master, quickly tying up loose ends and taking care of business matters at hand, or not speaking for two days, or crying in the shower, or getting angry, or writing it out, or seeking comfort in a boy you once loved and who once loved you back, or getting drunk, or spending too much money for a black dress you may never wear, or simply moving forward.

    I have more love surrounding me at all times, in quiet fashion, than I allow myself to see and be aware of.

    The best thing my Dad ever did for me was not insist I stay and live and raise a family in a small town in Pennsylvania, pop. 7000, that is depressed, where the average salary is $25k a year and the role of women is to create children and serve a husband. I never believed my Dad really understood my desire for more education, more independence, more money, more things, more passion, more worldliness, but I’m beginning to think he knew all along the old-school family way could never be me. And shouldn't be.

    The desire to live must be stronger than the desire to no longer try.

    The people you call family aren’t necessarily always those with whom you share a blood tie. I am from a family of dozens.

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