Saturday, February 11, 2012

Three months, and healing.

 So yesterday made three months since Robin passed.

 I decided not to write yesterday. I decided to give it a little bit more thought, and really figure out how I'm doing. Lately, I'm less of a wreck than I have been, so I think that's promising.

 The kids and I have been doing things. Meg and I just started learning Japanese, and made a didgeridoo for her class.

 I still cry. I think that'll continue for a long time, but I feel like I'm waking up. I feel like I have my feet back under me, and i'm moving in a direction.

 We also started talking about the memorial service and life celebration today. As much as I hate talking about it, I think I've finally hit that point where I'm past thinking that ignoring it will make it better. It hurts, but we are pushing through it.

 I've also started thinking about the future, or, at least without feeling horrible guilt for it. Survivor's Guilt really is a bitch. It was worse right after, when any time something made me smile, I felt terrible and just wanted to lay down and die.
 These days, there are pangs, but the realization hit that I still have a lot of story left in front of me, and as much as I don't want to keep walking, the swamps of sorrow will swallow me it I let them.

 The pamphlet the hospital sent, said it would be something like this, though, it truth, I only skimmed it.

 After a lot of looking, and asking for advice, the most common answer I usually got was, "I don't know what to say," which I completely respect, because there really are enough bullshit books out there telling us what to think.

 My thoughts lean more towards this process being unique for everyone. I look at my family, and a few people internalized it, a few avoided it. Meg turned her focus towards hobbies and staying busy. Logan tried to understand it sweetly in his way, and I don't know what Morgan is doing, bless her baby heart.

 I got angry, and then sad. Then I felt guilt, anger again, and then soul rending depression. I waited to die, I wrote emo poems about it like I did in high school. I cried, and yelled at God. I pointed out that if He was listening this time, I still don't know what the hell He was doing. Going back to work, because I just had to look at people who far more deserved pain and death than my wife.

 Then, one day it was all a little better. God and I still don't talk much, but that's alright. I still believe He's out there, I just question why, and if He listens. I also accept that I don't have the answers.

 But, one day it was better than the day before. I also realize that I will grieve her forever in a part of my heart. The rest of me needs to try to live though, no matter how much I may or may not want to that day. I'm still here and I have shit to do.

 I started reaching out to my friends again, and that has helped me, though it does tend to be the gorilla in the room. I tend to push past it first. My friends are helping remember how living felt, and I that them daily for that.

 So, today, Three months and one day later, I guess I am getting back to living, a baby step at a time.


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
  -William Earnest Henley

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