Is This Healing?

Someone said, "What is healing, but a shift in perspective?"


On that note, here's what went through my mind when I woke up this morning.


Grief becomes your constant companion.  What started as a traumatic meeting and intrusive relationship evolves over time.  Grief is not your friend, per se; she will never hug you.  She will, however, bear silent witness to every tear and every scream behind closed doors.  She waits stoically in the corner as you get it out, and pull yourself together for the thousandth time. 


You used to try to escape her advances by whatever means necessary- running, putting things between you, ignoring her calls.  You now know there is nowhere to run that she will not follow, quietly entering the room your in, in whatever country you're in, and closing the door firmly behind her. 


After awhile, you throw up your hands in resignation.  Isn't it best to just invite her in and offer her a chair?  Let's just get on with this, shall we?


The days go by, and Cory doesn't return.  Grief is always there.  If I live long enough to become old and gray, she will still be there, watching silently as I sob my heart out over wounds decades old, but only days old in my heart, in my chest, where I live and breathe.


Grief and I will spend whatever is left of my life together.  We'd might as well figure out how to get along.


The last year has been much more solitary than the first few months following Cory's death.  I think a lot of people may think I am isolating myself on purpose, due to depression, maybe, or just angry at the world.  While both are truth, there is another factor.  I've been working out how to sit with the pain.


 It takes time.  And I have to be okay with being alone with my grief before I can be much use around others.  So to those who feel I've dropped them like a hot potato, I'm sorry.  It hasn't been on purpose.  I've had a lot of work to do.