More tears fell even though I wanted them finished. In fact, lots more of them fell. Grief has no time table. I know this. I know this like I know my birth date. Yet every year I try to control this unrelenting sadness that stabs my heart and emotions in ways that are new and puzzling.
Why can't they be neatly stored in a ziploc bag and some of them dumped out each year with no more added in? Why can't they be the same emotions, the same levels of emotions and the same longevity of the grieving process? Why can't we be robots where grief is concerned?
For me, it would be easier.
Yes, it would be. It wouldn't sideswipe me and cause me to zone out in order to regain composure. While listening to someone talk my eyes wouldn't start to water and I'd have to fake a yawn. In therapy when talking about it I wouldn't feel that heavy lump in my chest, like I can't breathe, then carry on a conversation. When I'm by myself and my thoughts turn toward the person I'm grieving, I cry and in doing so, I have a conversation with them and maybe with God, too.
I guess that doesn't sound so bad, does it?
It feels heavy, sharp pains, wet tears.
It feels like grief.
