(no subject)
I don't know how to do this. I don't know what this is.
This.
Such a vague word for a tumult of terrible emotions.
I do not know how to navigate this world of pain and guilt and heartbreak I carry within me. I know there are books and groups and places and people with information. I have always felt comfort in the knowledge I gained from books. Words on a page. Magic.
Anna Marie loved words. We used to list them and share them with each other.
I have no desire to figure this out through books. There is no book or observation that matches personal experience.
I wake up and I think about her. I go through my day carrying this bone-deep sense of something being terribly wrong in my world. Something I can't quite put my finger on. And then I remember and my world shatters. I want to dream about her, but instead find myself dreaming about other people. People I have not seen in years. I hate my brain and the messages it sends me. I want to think and dream only of her until I am drunk with it, until she is saturated in me, and I know I will never forget her and the impact she had on my life.
A friend checks on me and I say sometimes I'm okay and sometimes I'm awful. She says that's normal.
I don't know what that means. I only know there is nothing normal about grief. It is clawing and exhausting and isolating. It is choking tears surprising me out of nowhere and stupid dreams about stupid people and loss: of desire to do anything, and the ability to hold a reasonable conversation or even a cogent thought.
I hate it. I hate this.
This.
This.
Such a vague word for a tumult of terrible emotions.
I do not know how to navigate this world of pain and guilt and heartbreak I carry within me. I know there are books and groups and places and people with information. I have always felt comfort in the knowledge I gained from books. Words on a page. Magic.
Anna Marie loved words. We used to list them and share them with each other.
I have no desire to figure this out through books. There is no book or observation that matches personal experience.
I wake up and I think about her. I go through my day carrying this bone-deep sense of something being terribly wrong in my world. Something I can't quite put my finger on. And then I remember and my world shatters. I want to dream about her, but instead find myself dreaming about other people. People I have not seen in years. I hate my brain and the messages it sends me. I want to think and dream only of her until I am drunk with it, until she is saturated in me, and I know I will never forget her and the impact she had on my life.
A friend checks on me and I say sometimes I'm okay and sometimes I'm awful. She says that's normal.
I don't know what that means. I only know there is nothing normal about grief. It is clawing and exhausting and isolating. It is choking tears surprising me out of nowhere and stupid dreams about stupid people and loss: of desire to do anything, and the ability to hold a reasonable conversation or even a cogent thought.
I hate it. I hate this.
This.