So here's the thing. I promised I'd be real here. I promised I'd be transparent and show what grief can look like. Or at least what mine does. And I've done that to a pretty good extent.
You may have noticed, I haven't been great with all my Giving Thanks posts at the end of November. Honestly, I sort of gave up. It became too much. Because right now, all I'm really thankful for is for my family and my friends who are keeping me afloat to the best of their ability and/or are simply putting up with me these days. I don't have a lot more.
It's Sunday again. I'm not a fan. I tend to be up all night. I don't want to remind myself of that, but I also don't want to ignore it. Nights are hard. Sunday nights are especially hard. I don't really know why it's so much harder except that I have to be up super early on Monday mornings and so I know it's just that much more tired that I'm going to be. But work is still my refuge so it's not that I don't want to be there.
Really...being home kind of tears me up. There aren't enough distractions. And I need distractions. I just do right now.
Last Wednesday, I prepped for Thanksgiving all day. Good distraction.
Thursday was Thanksgiving. Not easy, but still distracted.
Friday was dad's cemetery service. Crap. Hello grief...right in my face. I'd been doing such a good job distracting myself from you. Olly and I went bowling afterwards. It's what we did after my mom's funeral, so I figured, "Why not?". This was different. I couldn't find the laughter. At one point, grief came and slapped me around a bit and I found myself with a bowling ball in my hand, starting to hyperventilate while tears began pouring down my face. Grief has no mercy.
Saturday, Olly and I took a brief jaunt 45 minutes from home to the place we were married. I was looking for a getaway. A place to breathe. Let's admit it, I was running. Of course, I know that I can't run from grief. It just packs itself up in the luggage and comes along, invited or not. Asshole.
It was a rough night. I tried hard to enjoy myself. But it just wasn't there. I was insincere. And I could tell that people could see it. I spent a lot of money to run away. Dumb. I could have just sat on my own deck and cried. I could have laid awake in my own bed. Maybe next year, at some point, I can get away and breathe. But it doesn't matter where I go right now. The grief is coming with me, clogging up my lungs, dumping water from my eyes at the drop of a hat.
So, here's the thing. It is REALLY hard right now. The grief feels SO heavy. On my shoulders, in my lungs, in my heart. I can't remember things. Christmas feels SO overwhelming. I haven't even begun to consider gifts. And decorating the house sounds like complete hell.
I hate it here. Hows that for transparency? I HATE this place. H.A.T.E. it. I want OUT. I don't want to be here.
But I know I have no choice. I know I have to walk through this, not around it. But I don't want to. At all. It feels too hard. It feels like too much.
How I long for the distraction of work. Where I know what I'm doing. In my office that provides me peace. That peace that is so elusive anywhere else.
But then I have to walk out my door again. And grief is just waiting outside to walk me to my car and ride with me wherever I go.
I KNOW that the work I am doing is important and beneficial to me and to future clients who will walk their own similar paths. I understand every ounce of that rationally. I also know this WILL get easier.
Rational thought is not my problem right now. I understand the process of grief. Rationally.
But, my heart wants answers. It wants to know how much longer. It wants to know when our smile will be sincere again. It wants to know when we'll have fun again. It wants to know when this will be OVER.
And then my asshole brain reminds me it will never be over.
I KNOW. But I don't want to hear that. I don't want to feel this way anymore. It's hard. How many more tears can I cry? (Clearly...lots and lots...). My eyes hurt. They sting all the time.
I just hurt. Weighted down by so much grief. It feels hard to walk sometimes. My heart palpitates loudly so I can't ignore it. Often. I find it hard to breathe. A lot. I keep looking for answers when I know there aren't any.
And then I beat myself up, because I am a GRIEF COUNSELOR. I know all this stuff. Shouldn't I be able to do it better than anyone? You know, like I was so good at birthing a baby as a doula...because I knew so much (that's sarcasm for the record...I totally tried to think my way through labor...what a surprise).
I can't explain to people what this is like. There is no explanation for living in the world without your parents. You can't understand it until you are there. Just like so much in life. We all have our journeys. We all have life experiences that can't be explained to people who haven't experienced it. And we're often all so judgmental of other people in life. But we don't know their story.
This is mine. And it sucks right now. It just does. I know I'm learning and growing and I won't be the same person on the other side and blah, blah, blah. I get it. I just don't care. I don't want to do learn or grow or change.
And, yet, that's life. Every day, I wake up and attempt to step over another hot coal. Right now, I don't want to take one single step. And I have to remind myself that that's okay. I can just stay right here. But at some point, I have to move forward again. That's how I get through this.
But for the sake of transparency, I'm just telling you... I'm not taking steps right now. It's too much. It's too hard. And I don't want to do it. If I could make December go away, I would.
So, I'd like to give you a pre-emptive apology if you see me and I'm cranky and insincere. But I'm not going to apologize. This is grief. And sometimes it's ugly. And I'm not sorry for my ugliness.
All I can do is ask for a little grace. It's what I'm trying to give myself (although I'm really really bad at giving myself that same grace I could easily give to someone else). If you see me...ask me how I'm doing and be prepared for tears. And know that I'm not asking you to fix anything. It's just where I'm at right now. Go ahead and give me that hug. I'll take it. Yep...that's some serious growth there my friends. Totally cool with hugs these days.
Keep me in your thoughts. Hold some space for me.
And for all those you know who are grieving.
Because, if you haven't already, one day you'll be here too (or you'll be here again). And the best possible thing we can do for each other as humans is simply be there for one another when life gets ugly.
And the best thing we can do for ourselves is remember that it won't always be ugly in our life. But that we must make it through the ugly to get to the non-ugly parts. On our own time. At our own pace. For as long as it takes.
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