During the month of April, I am taking on the Blogging from A to Z challenge, writing twenty-six alphabet themed grief notes.
On August 17, 2017 my twenty year old son was killed in a car wreck. I am trying to be OK . . . we are all trying to be OK ... in a world where nothing is OK. I am reaching for what I know heals me ... creativity ... art ... writing. Stringing together words, thoughts, and questions.
I am a captive to my grief.
I didn't choose this. I certainly didn't want this. I have little to no say so in how I can show up to my life. Grief is always in charge.
A persnickety and arbitrary captor. grief plays nice one day and then the next, shuts it all down. One moment, grief allows me the space the breathe and the next, grips my throat, always showing me who is in charge.
On the wonderful days, I tip toe to the door, seeking my escape, hoping to not wake the beast. Knowing that one wrong but sweet move ... a song, a memory, a kind word ... will bring grief roaring, clamoring to slam my exit closed, capturing me again ... and again.
I surrender again.
I am raw and bruised from relentless beatings. Any seemingly meaningless, normal and mundane frustration ... losing my key card, dishes in the sink, unplanned days ... cuts into my wounds and I lash out from unseen pain. I am not easy to live with but grief adores me.
I've lost count of the things that I misplace or lose entirely. I think that grief takes them and hides them from me, a mind game that keeps me constantly searching. Grief is a magnifier. Any mess, anything and everything, look thousands of times larger to me. I know that I am overreacting. Grief demands that I know what is going to happen, all day, everyday and then delights in upending the plans.
I speak sweet words
I walk on eggshells.
I make a home with grief.