There’s this part of me. This incredibly sad, lonely, hurting part of me that is curled up in a ball. That has fallen into a black hole of despair and bleakness.
She’s begging over and over and over…
“I want my life back”
I want what seems real and normal and natural.
I want the other half of my parenting team.
I want the balance.
I want the yin to my yang.
I want what is familiar and easy and uncomplicated.
I want my LIFE back.
She is the part of me that will never stop grieving. That will never stop missing Mark. That will never stop wondering what the FUCK happened?!?
She’s the part of me that can’t make sense of this new life I’ve been thrown into.
It hurts me, to give life to those words. “I want my life back” because it suggests I don’t want the life I have.
I love Mike. I love our life. I love where I live. I love the direction things in my world are headed.
But I can’t be authentic to who *I* am, to how *I* feel, without acknowledging that I do, indeed, on some level, want my life back.
I want Mark, and who he was, and how we related, and how easy it was to talk to him, and how after 14 years he KNEW what I needed and I didn’t have to explain or ask or anything but tell him that I was hurting.
But I wouldn’t be hurting if he were here. And there is the crux of that painful acknowledgement.
I want my life back.
But I love where my life is and where it’s heading.
Grief is a nasty mindfuck.