Feeling like something happened years ago and yet it still hurts as if it's the first day? I'm not sure if it will ever stop hurting, but I would assume not. I mean, it still hurts after three years and I don't see this feeling going anywhere anytime soon. Are we just not supposed to ever know how it works?
I guess not. I think that's how grief is. You can't describe it, no matter how hard you try, and even when you're surrounded by people that love and support you, it still feels like they don't understand. I suppose that's how it works for most people. If not, maybe I'm just strange, but I have a hard time believing that no one else feels like this.
Here, but not. Happy, but sad. Complete, but empty. No matter how fulfilled you are, there always seems to be a little piece nagging in the back of your head. Asking if you really deserve to be happy like this or if everything is going to come to a screeching halt and you're honestly just waiting for the next horrible thing to happen.
Paranoia. Anger. Pain. Confusion. And overwhelming sadness.
It's all there and I feel it every single day. Sure, there are worse days than others and while I don't believe that it has gotten easier, I do believe that I have found a better way of dealing with it. I can go about my everyday life and I'm happy. I'm fulfilled with D and our pups. The life we've built and live together. But, I still miss Momma every single day and think about her so very often. Wondering if she would be proud or happy and how different life would look right now.
However, I refuse to be defined by my grief. I feel it and live it every damn day, but I will not be consumed by it. I've been devoured by it and had to scratch and crawl and fight my way out of the deepest, darkest, scariest pit of my life.
I'm not good. I'm not great. I'm not better and I'm definitely not the same person I was. I'm flawed and sad and have days where the thought of getting out of bed is physically, emotionally, and psychologically draining. I wish I could say that those days are rare, but not as rare as I would hope. Nevertheless, I still drag myself out of bed and even when I'm not having the best day, I still try. I try and try and I simply don't give up.
Maybe it's the wrong way to go about it. Then again, I don't think there is a right way. I'm human. And I've accepted that. Once I accepted that, things became a little easier to deal with. I understand now that it's ok to not be ok. And if I have a day where I simply can't make myself do something, I don't. There are days that my house doesn't get cleaned, laundry doesn't get done, dinner gets ordered instead of cooked, and once I get home from work I curl into a little ball and surround myself with my pups and husband.
I used to feel guilty about that. I felt so much guilt that it consumed me and I felt it in every single area of my life whether it should have been there or not. Should I feel guilty for not cleaning my house for a day or two? Should I feel guilty about not keeping up on laundry or my house not looking like someone else thinks it should? Once I figured out that the answer to that was no, life became easier. I honestly just don't care anymore if someone else doesn't like it. They can simply stay away. And yeah, maybe that's harsh, but you know what? Life is hard and if we surround ourselves with support and love instead of negativity and judgment, it makes it a much better life to live.
That's where I am three years after losing Momma. Not good or "fixed" but very flawed and beautiful. And I don't mean physically beautiful. I mean trying to live a life that makes me happy and that she would be proud of. Everything out in the open. The good, the bad, and the devastating. Surviving on nicotine, caffeine, and spite. Trying to be a good person and be brave enough to accept that some things are out of my control, but still willing to put myself out there and be free and content.
Because my Momma might have raised a whole lot of things, but she certainly didn't raise a coward.
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