I’ve gotten used to looking at the world from below. Curled in a ball on the floor, tears streaming, breath coming in fits. There have been so many nights spent on the floor.
Trying to hold on. To breath. To find something to focus on. To ignore the demons. To muster up a little strength to climb onto the sofa.
The world from down here seems different. Bigger, more distant. I feel small and insignificant.
Grief isn’t finite. There is no set timetable, no set of steps to work through until it’s over. The finish line keeps on moving further away. Every day, I think I’ve gotten past the worst of it. Think maybe I can do this. A lifetime of hiding and faking it is hard to shake off. Maybe I should be ok by now. Maybe I should have let go already. Maybe my heart should be pieced back together.
Too many shoulds. Too many expectations.
Feeling like I am failing, even at grief. I don’t even know what I feel anymore. I’m numb. Unable to hope. Unable to sleep. Unable to believe.
I’m going through the motions. Setting plans in place, doing the things I should to move on. But who am I fooling? Myself?
For night comes around, as it does every day, bringing with it a darkness that settles back into my bones. Reminding me I am weak. Showing me all the ways I failed again that day. That although I am trying, maybe I am not trying hard enough.
Everybody’s worried about me
I’ve spent two hours on my living room floor. Playing ‘Fight Song‘ on repeat, to try and convince myself that I have fight left in me. Two hours before I could reach to grab my laptop. To write the truths I don’t want to write. Because it’s easier to pretend and say “Yes, I’m OK… I’m getting there… I’m feeling better”
But I said I wouldn’t do that. No more hiding behind a mask. No more drowning my truths. Or burying them. Or writing them on my skin.
So I let the words fall out. Let the tears drop onto the keys as I type. As much as I need a positive space, I also need a space where I can be truthful. Where I can write my story. Without feeling like I should edit who I am.
And so all the things I haven’t said, tonight I’m screaming out loud. That it’s OK that I’m not OK. That I may be trying, but I’m not there. That sometimes I still put on a brave face. Act as though I’m not hurting. That I’m not broken. That sometimes I lose sight of the light.
Hoping that when I stumble, someone will be there to catch me. To remind me to pick myself back up, to brush off the dust and to keep talking.