So 2014 hasn’t quite had the start to year I imagined. Everyone is doing their Facebook movie and I can’t stomach creating mine, I know what it will be full of and I’m not ready to see that. I may not ever be ready to see that.
I really want to write something upbeat, have another epiphany or three. But I’m not there yet.
I’m trying to fast track this grief process with every ounce of my being, and it’s not fast-tracking. I guess that’s why it’s a called a process and it take TIME. But I’m giving it a good crack, just those bastard ‘stages of grief’ blind tackle you just when you’ve done a yoga class and have mustered some upbeatness, and BAM. I’m down, crying over 3 purple plastic cups in the pantry that belong to the brown haired three, or mad as a cut snake about the way it seems so easy for men, because I don’t think any man would be buckled at a purple cup. Mad about being a woman so filled with emotion that everything makes me hurt. I can’t bear to look at all the stuff in the house so I pack it up, and then it’s in boxes and bags in the garage and that hurts more.
I have reinvented myself and family once before in this house. By the time I moved things to the shed, and starting creating and clearing space there’d been so much fence-sitting about the future that it was a relief to start. It felt cleansing and I was excited about a new start. I wanted to stay here for my girls; with everything changing I wanted them to feel at home. So bit by bit I made it mine and ours and in time I forgot it was ever anything else. I’m mad as a cut snake about having to do that again. I REALLY don’t want to do it AGAIN. And if I have to do it again, I can’t muster any excitement about doing it in this house. My home doesn’t feel like home right now, and the family I thought I had is no longer. The person I thought was with me on that is not that person and I don’t want to believe he’s not. And I think this grief process should be quicker because it’s not actually like anyone has died. But then, I realise that’s not quite true.
There’s someone I thought I was – who I was with him, who believed he was her forever person, the one who told the stories about 7 daughters and the bike rides, and using too many towels – who has to let go, and who is slowly dying. Not all of me, just that part of me who believed in something that isn’t anymore how she saw it. It may have never been that, but I don’t think that matters. She’s not sure how to do the great unloving, because letting go means that she doesn’t get to love him like she did. Letting go means she dies, and her story with her and that version of the dream is gone.
So grief makes sense, and time to heal makes sense. And then the great remembering begins. That could be exciting….
