Friday, August 16, 2013

Slowly, Ever Slowly

You, the one sitting stone still, staring at nothing . . .

You, the one who feels like you have aged a 100 years . . .

You, the one with swollen, red eyes . . .

You, the one who wonders if you will ever be able to truly live again . . .

Slowly, ever slowly, you start waking in the morning and that overwhelming dread of having to live out another day starts to lift.

Slowly, ever slowly, you find that you have smiled at some one or over something and it wasn't forced.

Slowly, ever slowly, you find that you are looking forward to one thing . . . one event.

Slowly, ever slowly, the darkness lifts.

The grief and sadness never go away, they just change form . . . you learn how to live with it . . . how to cope. Just like someone learning to walk again after they lost a limb, you learn how to live with the grief, how to reign in the tears when they dare to consume you in the middle of the grocery store or while picking up your other child from preschool. The walking doesn't negate the loss of the leg nor do the smiles and the living negate the area of your heart that is empty and torn.

It isn't something you ever get over. You are not suppose to because you can't. You can't get over something that defies nature.

It isn't something you ever get over, it is something you go through. Everyday you will walk through this. Every. Day. Right now, though, it is thick and heavy. Ever slowly that fog will lift and it won't consume every part of you.

You get through it by slowly, ever slowly going through it. There is no other way.

Don't let anyone tell you how to grieve.

Don't let anyone tell you how to cope. 

Don't let anyone tell you enough time has passed. You don't know when enough time has passed to smile again. You don't know until you feel that foreign motion of the lips curving up. And even then, there are still soul-crushing, take-your-breath-away, bring-you-to-your-knees moments and days. 

Don't let anyone tell you to be thankful for the child(ren) who are living.

Don't let anyone tell you that having another baby will fix it.

Nothing can fix this. Nothing can make this better. 

Give yourself grace. There is no blueprint for this. Everyone does this differently. Don't let anyone tell you that you are grieving wrong because so-and-so had a similar experience and it didn't affect them like it's affecting you. 

Don't let anyone tell you that things could have been a lot worse. The ones who say that, never buried a child so they don't have a right to define worse for you. They don't know what worse is. When it comes to your child dying before you, that encompasses worse. Worse is worse.

Slowly, ever slowly, you realize you are alive.

Slowly, ever slowly, you enjoy living.

Slowly, ever slowly, you find hope. And you find that you hope in hope again.

There is, I’m convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms.
~Charlotte Bronte~




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