Grief is a very dark place full of memories of what has been and dashed hopes of what would be. Grief is a place of limbo; you know that your old life is gone, but you’re not ready to move forward yet. It’s looking at the space by your side and longing.
Grief is slow going, especially for an impatient control freak like me. I like to put a date on things, a deadline if you will, but grief won’t allow such organisation. We plod on through a dark tunnel in limp mode, no Sat Nav or phone signal, just hoping to see the light eventually.
People tell me I’m doing well. I get out of bed in the morning, shower, and wear makeup. I couldn’t consider doing anything but, it’s nonnegotiable; it’s me. My children have lost their father; I refuse to put them through any uncertainty of my strength. Inside I feel scared and lonely, but to them, I will be the pillar they hold on to as this tornado blows through.
I’ve seen the darkness of grief many times before, and all I know that I can count on is my ability to heal. That’s all I’ve got. If I hang in there, somehow I will find a way through, and things will begin to feel more bearable.
I’ll never stop missing or loving Justin or not be sad about our time cut short, but I can be thankful for the time we had together and for our children. I’ll treasure it and them always – a chapter of twenty-one years in my life story.
I’ve heard the phrase ‘walk with grief’ many a time. It’s true; it’s always there by your side, although sometimes it physically hurts as it veers straight through you.
I intend to take my grief with me to my allotment, on trips with the children, to see friends, and have the most beautiful experiences once again. Grief is heavy at the moment, so the smallest of activities are tiring, but as I become stronger and more accustomed to carrying its weight, our experiences will become easier. Well, that’s how I see it anyway.