Today marks one month.
Right now I hurt in a place where no one can reach. They can recognize my pain, but not reach it. They can find it, but can’t fix it. I’m being swirled through a current of darkness, and, at any given moment, I can be reduced to a sack of sobs. Put simply, these days feel pretty bleak.
I’ve set a trap for myself. I’m convinced that everyone is tired of hearing about my grief. I minimized my sadness because others have suffered a greater loss. I’m convinced I don’t want to continue to heal, because the next step is Acceptance, and I’m not ready to swallow a life without Liz.
Like I said on Twitter today, I’ll have the whole Garden of Eden on my soul once I make it through this rain. The most impossible part for me doesn’t lie in thinking that I won’t make it; it’s knowing that I will. That I have to. That there is only one way out: to push and pull and grow through. I don’t have a choice. I wish I had a quick fix. I want to do something, to pull out my wrench and repair myself, without the stupid tool of time.
I feel a challenge in my bones daring me to make more of this moment. Izzy would go get a tattoo, a mark to commemorate her new starting point, a sort of pain for pain type of thing. But I don’t have her guts, and I certainly don’t have her tolerance for pain. So I’m taking these pictures of me right now, marking the place from whence I intend to grow. This nest, made from the straw of loss and unhappiness is my new kind of comfort zone.
In the same way that a sparrow knows it’s molting, and a snake knows to slide out of old skin, I know a change is coming. There is comfort in knowing that this season will soon be solid evidence of all that I can overcome. Someday I’ll be able to look back and say “remember when…” A few months from now I won’t be able to grasp how limited I’ve been. But I’ll always remember and respect this pain.
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