This upcoming week marks six months that I have been grieving.
I’ve heard that the first year is the hardest, encountering all those “first” reminders of holidays, birthdays, memories, desires, etc. It’s probably one of the only things that keeps me going at times like this, thinking that next year it might be a little bit easier to breathe.
When I first started my grieving process, it felt profound. I was determined to grow and change through it. I was determined to live in a way that would have made her happy.
I’ve made changes to my life…yes. But reckless ones. There are days when I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
More often than not, grief just feels empty now–a gaping hole of missing.
I’m pissed off at a world that no longer has the person I want to see. I’m angry at a god I don’t believe in. In fact, I’m more convinced than ever that there can’t possibly exist a benevolent, all-powerful god who would allow something so senseless to happen.
In some ways, this disillusionment is more difficult than grieving. I’m so used to seeing emotional pain as a catalyst for growth that it borders on devastating to realize that sometimes it’s not.
I feel like I’ve stepped into a Dr. Seuss book.
Oh the things you will find
as the sacred you mine.
Your grief is a sign
that your love lasts through time.
Except when you can’t
because treasure is scant
when you’ve lost your whole soul
to that motherfucking cancer.
Bad rhymes aside, I’m having to realize that not everything can be silver-lined. Grief is not always filled with wisdom and life-changing moments of expansion.
Sometimes, it just is. It hurts, and there’s no way around that.
Maybe next year it will seem less bitter and more sweet.