It so hard to know when grief will overwhelm you.
It’s been five years since Claudia died, and she is still ever present.
2019 was a time of massive personal upheaval for me.
I spin it all as growth, but already 2020 has dealt me the most damaging of personal blows.
It’s left me slumped against that metaphorical wall. A wall I know well.
The wall of grief that has you shaken, has you guilt ridden and questioning who the hell you are, questioning how this can happen.
I remember this grief.
This is the grief of five years ago.
The grief that collapses you at any time.
Doesn’t distinguish between when your mind is focused or when its distracted.
If it comes crashing, you will be left ugly crying in the car, in the shower, at the bookshop or sitting on the toilet in the middle of the night.
It is the grief of letting go of something that is loved and wanted.
Of something you know would bring so much value, love and warmth into your life.
The unexpected loss, the feeling of empty arms, knowing that a bond has the ability to be life changing. And losing it feels like a reality just slipped through your fingers and you are helpless to stop it.
The grief that leaves you swallowing hard.
A grief no one wants to hear about.
Rather than sit still I move forward, always moving forward, it’s a coping strategy, probably a very good one.
Some times are just harder than others, some days are harder. Even minute by minute sometimes.
I have every intention of distracting myself as much as possible until the wave passes and my big surprise ugly cry episode become less regular and, hopefully less public too.
Less in situations that need me to explain why I’m like this right now.
How do you say, “I’m just grieving today, for all my losses, for all that won’t be, for all the joy and experiences I won’t have. I grieve because I miss the love that meant so much to me.”
To surrender a dream.
Minute by minute