(19 Weeks) Photo: Day 8, March 5th , 22:37
It’s been said, and I’ve been told by a very dear friend (bless you Katz, it helped me and alot of people) that grief and loss comes in waves.
If we roll with the wave analogy, when it comes, it’s like I’m reeling at the shock of the icy cold water hitting me and the unexpected, force of the wave that knocks me back. It’s a physical thing. It takes my breath away. I literally struggle to breath.
And then there’s the aftermath, the split second moment after the wave has hit me. I’m in this time-lapsed bubble of that moment, when everything and everyone around me blurs and fades. And it’s then that it’s at its worst.
It’s at its worst because I’m starring at the void of the future. First, the very immediate future (the next hour, the rest of the day, the week ahead). And they’re not here. Then the long term future, the weeks and months ahead, rolling endlessly forward.
And they’re not here.
It’s a void and a hole, a gaping hole, that I can sometimes ‘see’ or imagine, but something I always ‘feel’, smack right in the middle of my chest. Like there’s something pushing against my lungs that restricts my breathing.
They’re not here.
It’s the permanent, ongoing lack of them. Where once there was energy and passion and stupidity and silliness and tears and hopes and arguments and rants and catchphrases and endlessly repeated jokes.
But, as luck would have it, this doesn’t last long. More to the point, I decide I’ve had enough, that, nope, can’t do this. I can’t stare at this void any more. Change the subject. Let’s not go there.
Glass of wine anyone?