May 28, 2009

Day 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 the 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 …it’s so hard to explain…full of such distress and shit-will-I-make-it-though-this ness, and loss and distress. 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.

Someone said grieving is like the waves of the ocean. I am treading water. At first the waves are huge, they crash in over my head, pounding me down, slamming me on the bottom of the ocean. I am turned around, tumbled, confused. As I start to feel panicked, the need to draw air, I see the surface and come up.

Each time I come back up, I am exhausted from the effort of just being.

In the beginning, there are many, many big waves.

Then later, the waves will diminish in size. (So those who know have told me) I will still get caught by surprise and I will still go under, but they will not be as strong, not as disorienting.

Then a big wave will come again. There will always be big waves, the kind that surprise me and send me right back to the loss.

But as time goes on, the waves get smaller and less powerful. It is then I can start thinking about what direction I want to go in, instead of trying to just stay afloat.

photo: Langston saying good-bye to Art

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