I don’t cry nearly as much as I used to.
I’m not sure if it’s because I feel the need less often or because I’m just better at holding the tears at bay. But when I do, it’s pretty ugly.
My heart is still broken.
My soul still cries out for the child I carried in my womb and mothered for nearly 24 years.
I am not the person I used to be.
And I don’t know how to be the person I am now.
I had time to grow into the “me” that was shattered in a moment when a deputy knocked on my door. There was no time to get used to THIS news-not even the nine months it takes for a baby to grow to birth maturity.
In a breath, my son was gone. In a breath, my world was changed.
I have lived with this truth for nearly three years.
I tell the story like it happened to someone else. I give the important facts, the little details that make it real but it still seems unreal in so many ways.
I cannot believe this is my life
And when it hits me that this IS, in fact, my life-that’s when the crying starts.
I can’t help it.
I am just as astonished today as I ever was.
For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?
But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?
How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment”? The same leg is cut off time after time.
~C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed