The first time that time began to cease to exist was right after I had my stroke. After four days in the hospital, I returned home to recuperate, to reconnect the receptors in my brain. The thing that I noticed right away is that time didn't move the way that it had before July 20th. I didn't perceive the passing of time in the same way.
Maybe the trauma changed my perception or maybe something actually changed in my brain. All I know is that time moved more slowly. I would think that hours had passed only to check the clock and realize it had been only fifteen or twenty minutes. It felt like a gift. Time was being returned to me.
My mornings were spent slowly entering the day. Each morning, I would sit on the front steps, listening to the world wake up, and connecting to those in my social media world. Instagram was ( and is) my favorite place to visit.
Since Noah died, time doesn't matter but still I am counting time. First it was days, then weeks, and now months. We cross of the list of firsts we have to endure. I desperately want to reach for some since of normalcy but normal doesn't exist, normal seems unfair. I want to reach for purpose, for work that is meaningful but I just don't know how to do that.
So many have said that my words help them ... Ok. I wish I didn't have to write words that help others and I certainly have no desire to do so. I am just holding on as best I can and writing to try to wrap some framework around this season, helping myself, and maybe through down some breadcrumbs so I can remember.
Mostly, i am reminding myself to be gentle, be soft with myself. This grief is trauma to the body, the mind, and the soul. I need to return to what it felt like to sit on the front steps with my coffee and entering the world slowly.