A few nights ago, I had a dream that someone close to me died. Since I never know that I’m dreaming, all of my dreams feel real. And for the second time in my life, I had the experience of emotional pain when it turns physical. Most of the time, it is minor, like a dull ache in the throat when you try to speak, but if you’ve ever experienced real loss, there is something that happens as your entire body mourns the separation. A tightness in the chest, the inability to breath, a pounding in the ears and through the eyes. Over the years, I’ve tried to find the right words to describe it, and all I can come up with is that it’s like a fire trying to get out. These words aren’t right, but captures a little of my experience.
And the worst part of it is that you have it feel it over and over again. You wake up in the morning, and for that brief second you forget, before it all comes ripping in again to every nerve ending and severed intention. In retrospect, my loss was for the best, but it doesn’t lessen the memory or reality of the pain. As I age, I know that I will experience this again again in my waking life, and obviously it’s not something that one looks forward to. I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder though, as I know that once again, with God’s grace and strength, I will survive.
At the time, I never really thought about what it was like for those outside of my pain—family and friends trying to console the inconsolable. I spent so much time crying at random times, unable to focus on anything but the emptiness, and a misspoken word easily set me off. I had that luxury at twenty-three though. Other than some minor responsibilities, I was free to wallow, to spend countless hours in contemplation and self-examination, and it didn’t even occur to me to consider how anyone else was being affected by my collapse. It’s different at thirty-five. I see those that I love suffering this type of pain and loss, but they have to keep moving—have to keep going. They have “must do” lists and bills to pay. They have the 2 a.m. worries of children and 4 a.m. fears that their decisions are misshaping their identities. I must say that I am in awe of these people and their strength. Their ability to put one foot in front of the other even though they haven’t had the time to grieve or sort it all out.
This has been happening far too much lately. I feel helpless and sad, angry and old, and guilty over the relief that it’s not happening to me. Each time, I try to listen as much as I can. I offer some advice, though heartfelt and genuine, it comes from a removed place since I’m not experiencing their pain. While I’m not trying to place the divide there, we can both feel it. There’s only so much that you can say. There’s only so much that they want you to hear. If it’s too much, then you become a symbol of their pain, so distance is placed. As much as you want to be there, you know that ultimately, they are going it alone. And it just sucks……………………………………………
I wish I had the right conclusion. The right words. A magic wand or a time machine. Just know that you have my prayers, my support, and my ear whenever you need it.
I love you. And you. And you…
And the worst part of it is that you have it feel it over and over again. You wake up in the morning, and for that brief second you forget, before it all comes ripping in again to every nerve ending and severed intention. In retrospect, my loss was for the best, but it doesn’t lessen the memory or reality of the pain. As I age, I know that I will experience this again again in my waking life, and obviously it’s not something that one looks forward to. I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder though, as I know that once again, with God’s grace and strength, I will survive.
At the time, I never really thought about what it was like for those outside of my pain—family and friends trying to console the inconsolable. I spent so much time crying at random times, unable to focus on anything but the emptiness, and a misspoken word easily set me off. I had that luxury at twenty-three though. Other than some minor responsibilities, I was free to wallow, to spend countless hours in contemplation and self-examination, and it didn’t even occur to me to consider how anyone else was being affected by my collapse. It’s different at thirty-five. I see those that I love suffering this type of pain and loss, but they have to keep moving—have to keep going. They have “must do” lists and bills to pay. They have the 2 a.m. worries of children and 4 a.m. fears that their decisions are misshaping their identities. I must say that I am in awe of these people and their strength. Their ability to put one foot in front of the other even though they haven’t had the time to grieve or sort it all out.
This has been happening far too much lately. I feel helpless and sad, angry and old, and guilty over the relief that it’s not happening to me. Each time, I try to listen as much as I can. I offer some advice, though heartfelt and genuine, it comes from a removed place since I’m not experiencing their pain. While I’m not trying to place the divide there, we can both feel it. There’s only so much that you can say. There’s only so much that they want you to hear. If it’s too much, then you become a symbol of their pain, so distance is placed. As much as you want to be there, you know that ultimately, they are going it alone. And it just sucks……………………………………………
I wish I had the right conclusion. The right words. A magic wand or a time machine. Just know that you have my prayers, my support, and my ear whenever you need it.
I love you. And you. And you…