I am tired of being sad.
Of course, “sad” isn’t really the right word. “Sad” fails to adequately describe the feeling of an insufficiently healed wound, broken open again and again. It doesn’t articulate the sense of being unmade and remade into something fundamentally weaker, like a paperback novel after having been dropped into a bathtub. Sure, it’s still a book – but it’s wrecked.
I don’t feel like I’m made out of the same “stuff” that I was four months ago. That person didn’t cry during church hymns, movie previews, work meetings, commutes. That person liked to read and write and plan. She slept well.
And sure, I know… It’s a grieving process. And even though I have days or weeks when I feel like I’ve made it through to the other side, in truth it’s been not even three months since a lot of joy and hopes (not to mention a baby) died. So it is natural, I know, to have bad days, or bad weekends… even bad fortnights.
Still… it gets old.
And if it makes you feel better to say, “snap out of it!” or “go to the gym” or “get therapy,” then go ahead. Probably those are all good suggestions.
This has been a challenging couple of weeks. I think, probably, that if everything else in my life were great, that I’d be able to be stronger about other things. But there’s been trouble with work, and trouble with family, and so on. And it’s late winter in Idaho, which is always so cheery. 😛 And it’s hard to sit there with a woman with a belly and due date that pretty much match what mine was supposed to be, doing the girly coo-about-nurseries-and-maternity-photography thing. Feels like a direct hit on a fresh scab, and now my whole soul is oozing pus.
(Which is different than ‘puss’ – thanks, autocorrect.)
I am not writing this to whine or solicit pity or advice. I just want to feel better, and as time goes on I begin to suspect that I need to write if I’m going to heal. Isn’t it in Macbeth that Shakespeare said to give sorrow words, because unspoken grief will break the heart?