Time Does Not Always Heal
Today is a local walk to prevent suicide in a nearby town. I should be there. I know I should. But, I also know that in this season of my life, I cannot be. Instead, I'm sitting in my writing space this morning, listening to Billie Holiday, drinking coffee, and writing. This notion that grief heals with time does not apply to me. There are days that are better than others, no doubt about it. There are months that are easier to manage than others. And, there have been years that are easier to plow through than others. This year is not that year.
I beat myself up about skipping this year's event for a few weeks. I told myself I really should participate, since I do take a strong public stand in regards to suicide prevention and mental health awareness, but I just could not. We're nearing the three year anniversary of my brother's death and I'm finding it much more difficult than I anticipated. Why? I do not know. I could say three is my number. Always has been. When I played soccer, I was 3. When I played volleyball, I was 33. I always wanted three kids. Who knows. To be honest, I don't think that is what it is, though.
As the years progress, the newness and shock of death and the grief that accompanies it wears off. In some weird way, it was easier in those early days because everything was surrounded and centered around the new grief. But now, the newness and shock has warn off. Now, what chokes me is the finality of it all. Knowing that this is life now. I know it sounds obvious but it is not always obvious in the beginning stages of loss. It is hard to swallow that this is now my life. I will forever carry this grief. It goes beyond being hard on anniversaries, birthdays, and holidays. I know those days will be hard. It is the unexpected moments that make this so damn hard. Like yesterday, driving home from Target and hearing a song my brother and I talked about on the radio. That conversation will never happen again and the ache of longing can feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. Or, being on a kid free weekend in Montreal and finding out it is National Suicide Prevention Day and the floodgates opening up and grounding me so overwhelmed with emotion, I spent most of the day in a hotel bed crying. Some of those tears were anger at myself for wasting a weekend day by myself sobbing in a hotel room. Shouldn't I be beyond this point by now?
But, no. I was reminded recently that this wound is still fresh and could be fresh for another 50 years. And, that is okay. Time is not always a healer. And, that is okay. There will be years that I just cannot be surrounded by other people sharing this grief because it is too hard. And, that is okay. There are days that I feel so lucky to have had this boy in my life and there are days where anger for his choice cloud my heart. Both, they are okay. It has taken me a while to get here and I still have a long way to go. Grief is not a string of milestones, it is a wavering thread.
Rather than attending the walk, I donated money to the AFSP. If you are so inclined to do so, click here.
I beat myself up about skipping this year's event for a few weeks. I told myself I really should participate, since I do take a strong public stand in regards to suicide prevention and mental health awareness, but I just could not. We're nearing the three year anniversary of my brother's death and I'm finding it much more difficult than I anticipated. Why? I do not know. I could say three is my number. Always has been. When I played soccer, I was 3. When I played volleyball, I was 33. I always wanted three kids. Who knows. To be honest, I don't think that is what it is, though.
As the years progress, the newness and shock of death and the grief that accompanies it wears off. In some weird way, it was easier in those early days because everything was surrounded and centered around the new grief. But now, the newness and shock has warn off. Now, what chokes me is the finality of it all. Knowing that this is life now. I know it sounds obvious but it is not always obvious in the beginning stages of loss. It is hard to swallow that this is now my life. I will forever carry this grief. It goes beyond being hard on anniversaries, birthdays, and holidays. I know those days will be hard. It is the unexpected moments that make this so damn hard. Like yesterday, driving home from Target and hearing a song my brother and I talked about on the radio. That conversation will never happen again and the ache of longing can feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. Or, being on a kid free weekend in Montreal and finding out it is National Suicide Prevention Day and the floodgates opening up and grounding me so overwhelmed with emotion, I spent most of the day in a hotel bed crying. Some of those tears were anger at myself for wasting a weekend day by myself sobbing in a hotel room. Shouldn't I be beyond this point by now?
But, no. I was reminded recently that this wound is still fresh and could be fresh for another 50 years. And, that is okay. Time is not always a healer. And, that is okay. There will be years that I just cannot be surrounded by other people sharing this grief because it is too hard. And, that is okay. There are days that I feel so lucky to have had this boy in my life and there are days where anger for his choice cloud my heart. Both, they are okay. It has taken me a while to get here and I still have a long way to go. Grief is not a string of milestones, it is a wavering thread.
Rather than attending the walk, I donated money to the AFSP. If you are so inclined to do so, click here.
Meg, My son and I donated and walked today for you and for all those families and friends who have lost loved ones to suicide. My thoughts are with you today.
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