When I disassociate.
It’s easier to fall asleep when I put my grief into a tiny little box in the furthest recesses of my heart.
It’s easier to relax when my brain isn’t remembering as much about him.
It’s easier to move forward when I’m shut down.
I had a few things today pull the grief out of its box and air it out like all sorts of dirty laundry.
There were many instances of being *forced* to remember.
There were too many moments of “I miss my husband”
There was one too many “I’m so sorry for your loss”
And the grief was there at bedtime. Waiting for me to give it notice. Waiting for the moment when I acknowledged it’s presence, as I do every night. Usually, however, grief allows me to shove it back into the box… sometimes it’s harder than others to get the lid closed, but I usually win.
Tonight – grief won. Tonight grief fluttered in my heart, waving and flapping around, forcing me to pay attention.
Grief covered me, overwhelmed me, drowned me in my own tears.
Tonight, grief forced me to see it for what it is – very much alive, very much present, taking over, pulling me down, slowly transforming the basic structure of who I am at a cellular level.
“They” say grief changes you. “They” are correct. Grief has changed me, in ways I don’t know, in ways I don’t understand, in ways yet to come. The transformation is not complete. The changes are still happening.
The tears still flow, the wounds still bleed, my heart still aches with sadness and longing.
Sleep is much easier when I can keep grief at bay…. but I know that the more I push grief aside, the more insistent grief will be when it makes it’s presence known again… and the more difficult it will be to get grief back in it’s box.
I hope beyond hope that one day, grief will not need to be forced into the box – that grief will sit on a shelf, waiting until I can take the time to give it the attention it deserves… because my grief over Mark deserves attention.
It would be nice if I could sleep, though.