I wish I could say every day gets a little tiny bit easier.
But it’s not the truth, just when I think I feel better, a 100 foot wave of pain, heartache, memories, and nostalgia engulf me.
It’s hard to get out of bed.
This must be the messy part. The messy, dark, hard, heavy transition. I would I skip skip this part. Fast forward to feeling better. Fast forward to a healed scar.
This is the part people don’t talk about. When you fall down, hard. Of course, we get back up, we all do.
But what happens in the middle?
How do you get from A to C. How do you have the courage and the strength to pick up your heavy soul and your heart. A heart in which a whale sits on.
How do you find meaning in life again? How do you find small moments of happiness? How do you squint your eyes so you can manage or imagine to see some bit of a dust of light?
Can I tell you something so small gave me a little high? My mail packages arriving at my apartment.
For as long as I have moved out, all my mail has gone to my mother’s house. It made me feel independent to have an address or live somewhere where I can receive packages.
Yes, it made me feel quite grown up. And I wanted to share it with someone. Text someone. Call someone. Message someone.
“Guess what? Picking up the packages at my apartment, lit my heart up today.” It felt good and new and big.
I know it may seem small but I refuse to call it stupid.
I’ll call it a light. I’ll call it living again.
I’ll take it.
I pray and meditate to find a purpose to this all. Growth, expansion, opportunities.
And the grace to let go.
To let go, lovingly and wholeheartedly.
Sometimes I am there but there are dark moments when I get angry all over again and the darkness and redness seeps into my skin and my stomach.
The conversations and would be conversations play in my head. Shoulda. Coulda. Woulda.
The whys, and hows.
And I have to fight my way out of that hate, out of that resentment, and anger, and shame, and regret.
Fight my way so I can come back to love. Come back to leaving you the way I left you. Loving you completely and wholly. Loving you unconditionally, but ultimately choosing myself.
Choosing to love myself. To honor myself and honor my feelings. To respect my feelings and thoughts.
And not to shame them like you did. Not tell them, how dare you even exist? They say you aren’t your thoughts.
But they are a part of you, they flow into your decisions and your beliefs. What you think…is.
Every day and every moment, for as long as I need to remember, for as long as this process and mourning lives within me, I promise always to do so with love.
To honor you, to wish you nothing but light and love. To wish so intensely for your healing as I do for mine.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
And to truly love you.
I have to truly love myself.