Tuesday, July 31, 2012
that’s the sensation that’s most apt.
every day i feel as though the world is spinning out of control and that i must cling tightly to the earth just to stay on.
everything important is beyond my control and i have answers for nothing. it seems i have lost my voice—unable to adequately discuss or describe anything at all, regardless of how banal.
at least that’s how this deep well of grief feels.
some days are better than others.
some days i wake up and feel okay. i almost forget how tremendously sad i am. i get out of bed; i get through my day; i may even laugh a few times. some days i get to be the closest version of myself i can be.
most days, though, i wear a mask. this mask tells the world that i am fine. i am strong, capable, and able to handle anything the world throws my way. that i am happy. that i am so glad to be where i am, doing what i’m doing.
this mask is just that—a façade to make the rest of the world comfortable, so no one has to know how truly down i am. so no one feels obligated to treat me delicately or ask how i am when they don’t really want to hear the answer. so no one can get in, get attached, and then break my heart when they leave me, too.
while i know that nothing will ever stop the pain, i do hope that it will diminish a bit with time—dulling to a level i can bear without having to mask myself each day.
i’ve been very quiet since my daddy’s death and have intentionally avoided writing about it here because i don’t want the people who are closest to me to know what a mess i am and to worry. sometimes i think i’m too good at masking myself and they might assume that everything is okay. but that’s not the truth: i am a disaster right now.
i’m trying every day to stay positive and look for the good in life, but some days it’s very, very hard.
i’ve been lucky in my life to never have lost anyone who was very close to me. that, it seems, is a mixed blessing. yes, i’ve never had to grieve, but i also never learned to grieve, so i’m left to figure it out on my own.
many people would probably tell me to talk to someone. those people mean well but obviously don’t know me at all. i don’t talk—especially not about mushy-gushy emotiony stuff. that’s not me, and i can’t see how it could do anything but make me more uncomfortable.
i’m aware that talking it out helps a lot of people and that sharing a common experience can be affirming, but i’m not a joiner and have never wanted to share. i especially don’t want to share now—when i’m raw and hurting and vulnerable.
so i read. and i listen. and i watch.
and i find solace in the characters i encounter who have shared common experiences but who cannot talk directly to me, engaging me in conversations i don’t want to have.
instead, they communicate with my soul, telling me that it will all be better someday. that everyone goes through this and i just have to bide my time and be patient.
patience has never been a virtue i possess, so that last bit is especially challenging.
but i will get through this.
i will miss my daddy fiercely.
i will love him always.
i will continue to remember.
but i must not dwell.
and i must begin leaving my mask behind.