I've started speaking with a grief counselor.
12 years later and I decide it's time to see someone.
I've come to grips with it, mostly. On an intellectual level, mostly.
My heart is still broken, clumsily glued back together. It's mending but there's some sort of block - or perhaps a vital missing piece. I know it's always going to hurt. There's simply no fixing that. But I think there is supposed to be a better balance. I know there is a God and that He takes care of me. I see proof of that everywhere. I am constantly reminded that I am not alone in this life. And I am abundantly aware that forever is a really long time, especially when all we can touch is right now, this very moment.
Most of my moments these days are great. But they are still tinged with sadness. Because every moment of every day, with every breath, my heart aches for those I've loved. And those I've lost.
The very depth of that pain is proof of love's existence and eternity.
That should give be reason to celebrate, I have been blessed to know love like that, to know that love will never leave me. But every moment of every day, I am painfully aware of its absence.
I want to find a better balance. I know there has to be one. I am running on the assumption that there is still one more lesson I have yet to learn from it all.
There's always one more surgery, one more lesson. I'm ready to enjoy much more of my life so I've asked for the help of a tutor, a grief counselor named Mike.
I think he will be able to help. He already has. He assures me I'm not crazy. And that I haven't failed.
Even the Fine Young Man reminded me recently that it's all in how you finish.
So I'm looking to finish strong. Joyfully.
I told Mike that I have a really hard time talking about things. It's much easier for me to write.
He asked if I needed to mull over why I don't like to cry in front of people. No need, that's simple. I will forever hear my Daddy's voice, "Why in the hell are you crying? I'll give you something to cry about." And I will forever feel myself screaming silently, "Fuck you. You will not break me. I will not let you see me cry." Crying makes you vulnerable. I don't want to be vulnerable.
Apparently it's a prerequisite.
Yea, I am much better at writing it down, all alone.
So I asked Mike to give me prompts and let me write my way through it. My first one? A letter to Him. I've written more than a few, but this one has a specific focus. I am supposed to zoom in on how it feels to not have gotten to say goodbye to Him and how it feels to not have been there to stop him from drowning.
He wants me to really give it some thought, to mull it over a bit. We've decided I'm a master muller. Well, I decided anyway. But I don't think he disagreed.
I guess the biggest thing so far is that he gives me permission. Permission to mull, to listen to those murmurs. With that permission I'm assuming comes permission to schedule my mulling time, permission to not let mulling and murmuring consume every moment of every day.