Counting

12_12_09.jpgDay 42 

I count ...

the days.

I count to remind myself that I have only begun, that I am a newcomer to this kind of grief. I count the days to get me to the next one. Each time I count a day I tell myself that some day, when there are three or four numbers in that count, it will not hurt so deeply.

I count the days to remind myself not to expect too much.

Sometimes I count down. Only 4 more hours till this day is over. The only comfort it holds is that another day is done.

I cry ...

so deeply that I am used to the sound of it. I never liked the sound of my crying. It was harsh, raw, rough and completely un-feminine, I thought. But the sound has changed. It's deep, full of such...full of such distress and shit-will-I-make-through-this-ness. The sound makes me cry more. It's the kind of cry that no one can listen to and not cry themselves. It's the kind of cry that only time can lessen.

I believe...

what someone told me, that grief is like waves of the ocean. I am treading water. At first the waves that wash over me are huge, they crash in over my head, pounding me down, slamming me into the bottom of the ocean. I am turned around and confused. I am not sure which way is up. I panic as my need to draw air intensifies.

Each time I come back up. Each time I am exhausted from the effort of just being. They say in the beginning the waves are numerous and fierce and then they diminish in size. And even lessen in strength.

They say...

that there will always be big waves but that they won't come as often or with such intensity as they do now. And it is then that I can start thinking about what direction I want to go in. Instead of just trying to stay afloat, I will be able to swim to dry land.

I pray they are right.


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