Grief is a funny thing. It consumes your life. It takes your breath away.
It washes over me in waves. One minute I'll be fine, floating along with the flotsam and jetsam of my life. Then something happens and I'm drowning in waves of grief. It washes over me, pulls me under and leaves me gasping for breath, sobbing and retching.
This is my new normal.
Grief is heavy. Getting out of bed in the morning is hard. Choosing clothes is almost impossible. Chewing food is laborious. I sit with my hands wrapped around hot tea hoping that it will warm me from the outside in. It doesn't.
I've learned that I can do one thing. Just one. It might be a phone call from the insurance. It might be opening the mail. But that one thing takes all I've got. All my strength goes into that one thing and then there's nothing left.
There's nothing left for laundry. Or for menu planning or for polite small talk. There's nothing left for homework or house cleaning.
I wander through the store with no idea why I'm there. The only thought on my mind is to make sure that I stare at the pickles so I don't see the peanut butter frosting.
My phone thinks for me. Dinging when it's time to pick up the kids from school or reminding me that there's tumbling class. What day is it today? I don't know. But I know that it's been 29 days since the accident.
Some days I put one foot in front of the other with no idea where I'm going or what I'm doing. Moving forward, carrying this overwhelming heaviness on my heart.
Every Monday I live with the awareness. One week, then two, three weeks, now four. Somehow the sun rises and sets with distressing regularity and all I can do is try to breathe.
Some days, my one thing is breathing.
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