But why is the sun visiting Australia now?
But why is it time for the sun to go to Australia?
But why does time keep passing?
But why is time passing part of life?
But why don’t you know?
But why should I ask daddy?
After a visit with a university friend of mine who currently lives in Australia, Maddy has had her interest in understanding the sun sparked again. She quizzed me for a half hour about Australia tonight. She often asks me questions that I can’t answer, and never accepts that I don’t know something (I should probably bookmark this to remember when one day she never accepts that I do know anything ;) ).
Time. It does just keep passing. Asking why is to ask a question that many have pondered and none have answered. Time, both a blessing and a curse. Non-grief time feels somewhat standard. It speeds up with age, and tends to be relative to the number of new experiences you are having. Grief time is like an elastic band. Everything feels so far and so close all at once. To those of you in non-grief time, October 18, 2014 might feel like more than half a year ago. For me, it feels like yesterday. And yet, at the same time, it feels like a lifetime since I heard my mom and uncle’s voices. It feels like a lifetime since I felt the soft skin on the back of my mom’s hand. It feels like a lifetime since I spun my mom’s necklace around her neck and quipped that someone must be thinking of her.
I asked my grief counsellor if she thought that this elastic-grief-time is our brain’s way of protecting us. She said, “yes, it could be.” In one sense it deepens the pain, when you realize that it has felt like forever since that “last time.” In another sense, it allows us to feel the closeness that we crave – a split second of time where the heart and mind temporarily forgets that it’s been forever and it feels like just yesterday.
On October 18, I felt like I wanted to die. Or, at least I knew I didn’t want to live in a world that didn’t include my mom and uncle anymore. I didn’t want to live and I didn’t know how to live in that world. That world shouldn’t exist, and so I wanted to refuse to be a part of it. In the acute stage of grief, and a bit beyond, I cried so much, that crying was my normal state. To not be crying, was weird. The sadness of that time was the deepest pain, not being able to be in the world without feeling disconnected. Anytime I found myself around anyone who either didn’t know or didn’t acknowledge what had happened to me, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, “MY MOM AND UNCLE ARE DEAD! I DON’T HAVE A MOTHER!”
Seven and a half months have passed and the shape and form of the pain has changed, but it’s still as present as ever. I no longer have that feeling of screaming at the top of my lungs, but I do find it difficult to be in social situations still. It’s particularly difficult being amongst those that don’t know. There’s something to be said about draping your house with a marker, or wearing black. A message to the world, “I’m grieving, be gentle with my heart.”
Still, the sadness is pervasive. It’s always there, but it’s depth varies now, compared to the early days when it was always deep. Crying is no longer my most common state, but it is still common. I read this the other day (there was no citation) and it really struck a chord with me,
It’s not the kind of sadness where you cry all of the time, but more like the sadness that overwhelms your entire body, leaving your heart aching and your stomach empty, making you feel weak and tired. And yet, you can’t even sleep cause the sadness is in your dreams too. It’s almost a sadness you can’t escape.
To know me, now, is to know sadness. I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m learning to be okay with the fact that I will never truly be okay. But, in accepting that I will never truly be okay, I think I will be okay. The greatest gift you can give to me and others who are in sad phases of their life, is to accept them, sadness and all. I will show up if you let me be me.