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6. Breathless

Written Wednesday, October 23, 2019 / Day 72 / Evening

I regularly struggle with defining the world of grief that I now live in.

Part of that I know, is because it is inherently undefinable. The best I can do is capture a moment when the grief surfaces.

It is deceptive in that you can operate for a while. I have my moments where things are just as they were. Those moments do not really last too long - but they happen.

More often than not - there is a recollection I have, a remembrance that takes place, a significant aspect of my lost relationship that just swoops in and grabs me.

And in those moments there is this gripping, gasping element. It seems like the magnitude of the loss is just outside waiting - and when there is an opening it makes its presence known. And when it does - the experience is stunning.

Stunning in its intensity and emotion.

I think of the science fiction movies where the hero is in the space craft. The story unfolds where there is a need to leave the ship. In that moment where the escape airlock is depressurized and all of the oxygen in the compartment is evacuated there is an incredible transition between the oxygen environment and the transfer to the void of space.

That’s about it.

It seems like my current state is completely sucked out of the room. Facing me then is the magnitude of the loss. All that it means for the future - all that has been lost and the context of my life which is now a dark void.

I gasp at the intensity of the moment. Cry out to God for His relief. I see my dear sweetie and then I don’t.

I sob and cry but it is not like normal crying. It’s like a labored breathing - not that it’s difficult to breath at all - but the moment is so intense that it takes a moment to gather myself.

It is grief at its worst.

And there is no remedy. There is nothing that could be said. Nothing that could be done physically.

Like that oncoming storm system, you need to just find a protected place and ride out the storm until it passes.

I feel blessed that I do not want to turn to medications which I’m sure I could easily get. Or other crutches that may be available.

Not that I even want anything myself.

In the midst of these times though I surprise myself that I have hope.

I have this idea that it is going to change for the better.

I don’t know how.

I don’t know when.

I just know that it will.

This seems a little schizo to me.

Now I know that I am decompressing from the past week. It was so overloaded with people and recollections of things I am trying to minimize - I’m sure that has not helped on the surface.

But I pray that it is helping at some deeper level.

So as I continue on day by day, these moments will continue to be a part of the journey.

Awful parts, for sure - but parts of the journey that seem to need to be taken.

I cling to the love I have for my sweetie. How I know she is safe in God’s care. And how He will take care of me when He sees the time is right for that to happen.

It’s a future breathless moment - a moment that I long for - a moment that I know is closer every day.

6. Breathless

Written Wednesday, October 23, 2019 / Day 72 / Evening

I regularly struggle with defining the world of grief that I now live in.

Part of that I know, is because it is inherently undefinable. The best I can do is capture a moment when the grief surfaces.

It is deceptive in that you can operate for a while. I have my moments where things are just as they were. Those moments do not really last too long - but they happen.

More often than not - there is a recollection I have, a remembrance that takes place, a significant aspect of my lost relationship that just swoops in and grabs me.

And in those moments there is this gripping, gasping element. It seems like the magnitude of the loss is just outside waiting - and when there is an opening it makes its presence known. And when it does - the experience is stunning.

Stunning in its intensity and emotion.

That’s about it.

It seems like my current state is completely sucked out of the room. Facing me then is the magnitude of the loss. All that it means for the future - all that has been lost and the context of my life which is now a dark void.

I gasp at the intensity of the moment. Cry out to God for His relief. I see my dear sweetie and then I don’t.

I sob and cry but it is not like normal crying. It’s like a labored breathing - not that it’s difficult to breath at all - but the moment is so intense that it takes a moment to gather myself.

It is grief at its worst.

And there is no remedy. There is nothing that could be said. Nothing that could be done physically.

Like that oncoming storm system, you need to just find a protected place and ride out the storm until it passes.

I feel blessed that I do not want to turn to medications which I’m sure I could easily get. Or other crutches that may be available.

Not that I even want anything myself.

In the midst of these times though I surprise myself that I have hope.

I have this idea that it is going to change for the better.

I don’t know how.

I don’t know when.

I just know that it will.

This seems a little schizo to me.

Now I know that I am decompressing from the past week. It was so overloaded with people and recollections of things I am trying to minimize - I’m sure that has not helped on the surface.

But I pray that it is helping at some deeper level.

So as I continue on day by day, these moments will continue to be a part of the journey.

Awful parts, for sure - but parts of the journey that seem to need to be taken.

I cling to the love I have for my sweetie. How I know she is safe in God’s care. And how He will take care of me when He sees the time is right for that to happen.

It’s a future breathless moment - a moment that I long for - a moment that I know is closer every day.

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