(I'm aware this blog post is very similar to the last blog post I wrote one week ago. It's where I'm at. I've been seriously itching to write all week long, so I sat down and this is what came out. It is what it is I suppose. I'm sure I won't be this pathetic forever. Really, pretty sure.)
I feel like a marionette. I clumsily walk through my day with a goofy look on my face hoping that no one notices my heart isn't in it.
I take big steps planning to cover a lot of ground when really my life is playing out on a confined stage with an audience that is rightfully absorbed in their own drama.
Sometimes I pause and look around me. I wonder if anyone can see the panic in my heart. The tears that sit in the corner of my eyes. I wonder if my gestures are so grand they give me away.
With grief, there's always strings attached. My limbs are a slave to my feelings.
But the show must go on, and while my brain sits on autopilot, just trying not to tie myself up in knots...my body moves. Part of the world, but separated by what I know.
I know what a gift happiness is. I know when you lose it, you lose a big part of yourself.
I know that some people survive disease and some do not. I know that hearts can break in half and your body will still move.
One foot in front of the other.
One long day after another.
And I wait for a change. Some kind of change in myself that will help me to see my blessings clearer.
"Life is what you make of it."
"It's up to you how you deal with life's challenges. You can let them build you up or tear you down."
All these wise words mean nothing when you are suffering.
Being half of a whole for 20 years, and now losing that wholeness...
It can seem so hopeless at times.
This process of making me a stronger person is terrifyingly long, as I'm just at the beginning of this seemingly endless road. I'm only six months in and I'm wishing the hurt would ebb. Yet it flows like a mighty river into a mighty ocean...no beginning...and what seems like no end.
I know this is part of "the" process. I know I'm following a pattern set long ago by widows before me.
There is comfort in that.
Until I find my happy again, I'll take my wide clumsy steps throughout the day and try to make the kids smile.
And in the process, search for a place in my heart to hold the grief that isn't so delicate. A place where the hurt can be confined somewhat, as to not have control of the whole of me.