Grieving More Than a Death, Grieving More Than a Life: part 1
I am the last survivor of the pinky swear club
I am trying my best to cope with my lost half. How is it that you can’t see this coming, I ask myself on a daily basis. After all she died 10 times but still I kept thinking she wouldn’t die forever. Just the minor kind of dying like when you are choking and someone does the Heimlich thing on you? Yet she did die the real kind that sticks and keeps on going even after 6 months now. She did not come back from the paddle that last time. It was the last time. Ouch. When you put it that way it feels real. Okay, you may wonder if I even have a bone of reality in my body since this happened 6 months ago and I am just now kind of putting this in words to test it. Yet my mind was still thinking she went on a great holiday and didn’t invite me and I shall be mad later when she comes back and shows me all the great pictures I missed. But no she isn’t coming back so its tome for me to fess up and realize she is real dead not movie dead. She isn’t ghosting me on Instagram, or not calling because she lost her phone again (truly like 3 times in the 6 months before). I wonder if this is what shock feels like but its way bigger than I ever knew. I have only had the kind of shock when to decide to swim in Florida in the winter because you decide its worth the chill. That kind only lasts a bit before your teeth are chattering. But I want to get out, I can’t find the ladder and I am off in the deep end. How do I get off this merry-go-round and go back to the way things were? I can’t so I will be riding it until I either throw up or pass out. Grieving used to be a word I understood in context. The context of my best canine friend in middle school, my grandmas and grandpas that didn’t really know me, my favorite uncle, my 2 lost babies I never got to hold. Those were real deaths, and I could grieve them. They hurt. They didn’t bring me to my knees mentally. This death was my lifeline to my heart, seat of emotions, creative cheerleader and consult when I wanted to complain, fuss or stew. She always had my back when I needed a cheerleader or commiserator (yeah that’s a word, trust me). She allowed me to think out-loud and to realign my headspace when it was just crazy in there. She was the childlike play, the inspiring me to my art, my writing, my love of nature. She was the one who would console me when I needed someone like now. Yikes! Where do I go now? I have a few other friends. They are good friends, but I feel bad because they are dealing with their own deaths. Their own crazy life through you down in a ditch moments. So, I am turning to a few anonymous readers, knowing that those who read this will either nod their heads and say, been there, am there bro, or they will gladly pass on that dish of sorrow and read something more encouraging. To be honest, getting these thoughts out on paper is important for healing and clarity. These are my thoughts, my dark matter that is stewing and morphing into confusion and chaos. I will stop here for now and keep going on part 2 as I am sure you need to go swap the laundry or let the dog out to pee. As life goes on.
