A mom who is also coming up on her season of sorrow this spring wrote that she felt like screaming and throwing things.
I get it.
And because I live in the middle of the woods, far from neighbors or nosy passers-by, I’ve done it.
Sometimes I walk in the woods and just holler out my questions, my pain, my indignation that this is my life.
Other times I cry as loud as I want to, not trying to hold in the sobs.
When I’m really angry that it will soon be seven years since Dominic has crossed the threshold of home, I take old eggs and toss them at trees. I work myself to a frazzle stacking sticks to burn. I use my clippers and chop away at underbrush, releasing pent up feelings with every satisfying snap of a twig.
The longer it is since his leaving, the more I feel I need to have it together in public. Others have long moved on and my tears are inexplicable to those who have forgotten.
And while I have gotten stronger and better able to carry this load called “child loss” this time of year makes it all fresh again.
The pressure builds with no place to go.
It’s going to force its way through the weakest part of my character if I don’t release it on purpose.
So I do.
If you need me, I’ll be outside for the next few weeks.
If you hear something, don’t worry.
I’m just letting off steam.