*do not, I repeat, do not utter/comment a word of disrespect toward the person I chose to marry. I am no idiot and insulting him insults me. He is not the point of this. Permission to confess the depth of your pain, is. This, like many of your experiences, is just an unfortunately poignant story that paints it. I think these pictures do more than a million of my words could for painting the depth and validity of what was and thus the cavern created by what came to be no more.
I struggled all day to find words for the way October 27 feels, 5 years later.I know I’m not the only one embarrassed that “too many years later” something of the past still pains you. I know I’m not the only one brought to their knees by confusion for how you are where you are, while whitnessing “them” get what you wanted all along. (Oh man. That sentence was too honest). I can’t be the only one with suggestions barraging your trigger points… “of course everyones assumption is,Sophie, that this was some rushed,less than mature love.”….it’s a query I never address, because the thought angers me so.. but I’m stopped in my tracks, seeing these images how… Oh , how we loved deeply.. like a tale ppl dream of. I may never get to understand what occurred.
I intended to say nothing about today, because “talking about it means im stuck in the past and I’m not ready to move on”<< says the accusation voice that’s nestled deep in the crack this break made. I feel a shame in merely noticing todays date, much less speaking about it. But I also found myself hating the idea that somehow “healed” means today can’t matter for me? Is that really healing? To ignore aches for the sake of saying you’re ache free? Words are hard for me to come by the last month but what I will squeak out is this: I think it’s okay to mourn the loss, even 20 years later perhaps. I think it’s healthy to grieve when grief roars. And I think it’s just as pertinently healthy to LET yourself smile when smiles surface, without fear of the lips upward curve nullifying the pain that was, sometimes is, and probably will be in passing. It can be both and. You are a both and. And that is more than okay. It is divine.
As oct 27 came to a close, I gave up searching for words to describe the phantom sensations of this day. And then I came across these words..Suffice it to say… yes… Yes,Yes..Accurate.👇🏽
When Asked for Advice on How to Deal with Grief, This Old Man Gave the Most Incredible Reply
“I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter”. I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love.
So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.
As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out.
But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too.”