Grief 5 - A Pulse of Life
A pulse of life, waxing and waning, mind and heart waiting
A couple of weeks ago I began finding it possible to do things, finding some energy to bake crackers, sort a box, tidy my art space, sit in my writing hut, create a little that had nothing to do with grief.
When making this art in my journal I thought it would be lighter, but the edges crept inwards. It was there, the lightness, but less than I had thought.
The good news is it seems that darkness and sadness are on the retreat. A day of feeling more like me arrived. Hope on the horizon, thank goodness as for a while I thought that this was the new me. Quiet, sad, anger under the very thin surface, but no. Today I had a tinge of lightness and a smidgen of my old energy back. I know it won’t take much to crowd back in, but I hold onto the feeling. It can come back. I can come back, hopefully wiser and changed for the better.
I am getting a short walk or a short cycle ride when the weather allows, although fatigue slumps my body after.
Guilt receded a little more and I think guilt maybe a large part of the darkness.
Guilt for not grieving, guilt for feeling numb and disconnected, which is stupid. I can see that now. Stupid to feel guilt at the way my brain and body decided to react to all that happened. Understanding the trauma underneath it all.
I am not going to heap that trauma onto you and describe the horror of my mum in laws last week of half-life, because it definitely wasn’t life. The good times flash up more, smother the bad times, but I know they will be with me forever.
There was a moment the day my mum in law died when I was sitting next to my mum who was on a hospital bed. I held her hand. It felt frail. Alive, but frail. A pain in my heart at what I’d lost and what I still had to lose; emotions welled up. Luckily, I thought, the consultant chose that moment to come into the room. Perhaps it would’ve been better to cry, but once again I sniffed, wiped the one tear that had sneaked out, pushed it down and behind a barrier to be dealt with when I was alone. Except I didn’t deal with it. It remained there, slowly leaking. Maybe that’s what this has been, a slow leaking.
We all deal with grief differently. I know that and I don’t judge others for the way they choose to grieve but I judged mine. Strange that.
Someone said that grief comes in waves. I’m hoping the waves are smaller now, lapping at the stones rather than dragging them back under.
Words beneath the Art
Darkness receding, a spark of energy, ray of light. I am stronger, healing from the everlasting cough. Aches fading like a week old bruise. Guilt at not grieving like my sisters shrinks as the ability to create grows. Doubts that I am essentially a good person melt into the background. I fling myself to the next moment, use up energy to express who I am. Push the negatives away. I imagine a tattoo on my thumb, ‘Not My Problem’. A good mantra to have. To keep my mind and body together. I am not responsible for others happiness or health. Only my own. Sounds selfish but it means I can be here for them, just be. No advice, no interfering on their journey. Just be.
I look at my thumb when tempted to ‘help’ someone and visualise the tattoo. It works, somewhat.
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