Grief is a Bottomless Lake

The heaviness just doesn't go away. The ache in my chest.

7 months... almost 8.

My first full week of work almost coming to a close. 5 days of showers in a row (wow!), 5 days of being with people, 5 days of grieving in the car, in meetings, in my heart. 5 days of not giving up.

Sometimes I think that I must look okay. I'm showering and doing my hair. Getting to meetings on time (mostly). Wearing cute dresses. Why am I doing all those things? To keep myself going. To give confidence where I'm trembling. To help myself feel ready for what I'm not ready for: the rest of my life.

Grief is a constant hum in the background, the waves of the ocean, the wind at the beach. It continues on no matter what else is happening. It is always there, always heavy, always full of reminders of G, always empty of him in my arms.

There are so many places I haven't gone yet in my mind. Regrets. Relief. The complicated nature of marriage. All I can face is the ache and the hole.

I am proud of myself and I hate that I'm going on at the same time. I know G would be proud of me. But sometimes it makes me physically feel ill that we are moving forward without him. Yet, life is as relentless as grief. It never stops. So neither can I.

Gosh do I miss that man. His hugs. His hands. Running my fingers through his hair. His warmth. His presence. His laugh. His jokes.

The ache makes it hard to live and simultaneously reminds me that he was real. He was here. He mattered and matters and always will matter. Where there is great love there is great loss. The lake of grief feels right. It feels bad. But it feels right.