A Tidal Wave

Today was a hard day. I went to church because I knew I needed to get out of the house.  I hadn’t slept well and it was a sad morning. At church I suddenly felt like I was looking into my future down and long, lonely road with sadness and depression.

     The first two weeks were shock and numbness.  Holding mostly together for my son and getting business done.  Trying not to make anyone else uncomfortable with my situation and grief.  It’s what I do, what I’ve always done.  I have to fulfill my responsibilities to everyone else. There is no room for me.

     Now I feel like sometimes I am just together, just okay.  Others I feel like I am rattling down the road and my pieces are about to come loose and fly apart.  I’m coming apart with grief.  Waves of it.  Overwhelmed.

     I know if I am not careful I will succumb to full on depression.  I already feel it nipping at my edges.  Trying to keep me in bed.  In the house.  Don’t bother eating.  Like Alice in Wonderland drinking from the bottle.  Everything becomes too big, too far, too much effort.

     I haven’t been to the grocery store yet. I have been avoiding it. Too many things, too many people, lights too bright.  So many choices I am not ready to make.

 I just have to keep doing what I am doing.  I have been thinking about a way to describe what it is like to grieve. One moment I know where I am, who I am and what I am doing. Then  something happens and I am lost.  The weight and the sadness come on me like a silent fog.  I don’t know where I am.  I’ve lost my solid ground and I don’t know who I am becoming.  I forget what I am doing.  It reminds me of a poem by Carl Sandberg:


The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

It hurts but it isn’t entirely unwelcome.  I need it.  It’s the only way to get from where I am back to some kind of life without K.

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