Write about it! That's what everyone has said - my friends, my family, my therapist. You're a writer, that's what you do. Just write about it, journal, create, express yourself on paper as you always have and you'll feel better! I've tried to begin a hundred times and I just sit there, clumsily holding my pen, with absolutely no direction. There are no words to explain what I feel, neither spoken nor written. So where do I begin? T.S. Eliot said, "What we call the beginning is often the end. To make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." So...I guess I'll try starting there.
In two days, it will be eight weeks since my sister passed away. Eight weeks that seem like eight long years, yet at the same time, like eight short days. I have no concept of time right now because I've spent eight weeks running - from reality, from grief, from my memories, from fear, from acceptance, for my life, on fumes, on empty. My days and weeks meld together into one extended moment of chaos that resembles a thick, dark fog. It chokes me. And I can't see shit. Sometimes I lay on the floor because it's clearer down there. I feel more grounded and aware. But clarity usually brings her friends, emotion and grief, along with her to kick me while I'm down...and laying on the floor, sobbing for my dead sister, just makes me feel pitiful. So I rise back up and float away in the fog because there's comfort in consistency. There's comfort in NOT feeling.
It has been sixty-one days. Sixty-one days of not hearing her voice, of sleepless nights, of reliving her death, of missing her so much that I can't breathe, of longing - no, PINING for her. Sixty-one days of doing everything in my power to keep myself distracted, of avoiding reality, of staying out too late, of drinking too much, of pushing away the grief. Sixty-one days of NOT coping, healing or taking care of myself. Needless to say, I am tired, weak, sleep-deprived, hungover, depressed, anxious, still sad, overwhelmed and pissed off that I've wasted so much time. Eight weeks, and I'm still at square one. This person I've become isn't the real me. This life I've been living isn't mine. I have to put an end to this madness. I think I'm ready for that new "beginning", Mr. Eliot. Let it begin now.
8 comments:
What a beautiful start, to your new normal .
You are brave and strong. I believe in you and your heart. If you need anything and ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on, or arms to help hold i am here for you! I love you!
This was beautiful, sad, real and raw. I pray the writing will allow you to heal. You are a talented writer! :-) ~Thy
I sure love you.
We both love her so much. I miss so many things about my babydoll and don't even know where to start. I guess the WEEKLY phone calls telling each other about our lives and helping each other through them. I find it hard to leave work every day and know that I can't call her and tell her my EVERYTHING and she do the same to me. I miss my babydoll...I miss my BFF....I miss my ROBYN. :-(
I love the use of water metaphors. I felt like I was down on the floor with you. I appreciate being "let in" on your grief experience because I appreciate the privilege of intimacy; it makes the sad into something beautiful because of the connection it can create between people. Thank you for the privilege of letting us in. -Jolene
Sarah, This is beautiful and powerful. I'm sure it will help you as you continue through what must be such a painful, difficult process. Thanks for sharing it. You are in my thoughts and prayers.
Sarah,
You never cease to amaze me with the words that seem to so effortlessly spill from your brain, expressing such emotion . I know it is more effort than you would hope for-more than you desire at this point-but know that your lifeboat isn't far. Although you may be seemingly clinging to the oars, soon you'll be comfortably riding the waves. Love you!!!
Kim
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