08 February 2018


They say that we all grieve differently, that the process for each person is both similar and yet not. We don't have much in the way of instruction, once it happens we look for answers, we read about it but that's always after. I don't know anyone who studied grief before grief descended upon them.

When we're young and we're busy falling in love we often hit the ropes a time or two. Heartbreak happens, we learn to love over time. We when lose the person we fell in love with it there isn't a gradual learning slope, and so we all learn to cope overtime but it isn't like we know how in the beginning.

I'm writing this now, for all of the people who have tried to help me. Know that I understand that your thoughts and prayers were genuine. I also know that I have not returned communications, nor have I reached out, I haven't talked to a lot of people that I should, because I can't.

My mechanism for coping has been to be alone for the most part, I know I've withdrawn from the world because I can't currently function within it. Of course I am taking care of my children, they've become what keeps me upright. Outside of them though I don't talk to other adults unless I have to. Not because I don't care, but because I simply can't.

Carol was my strength for so long that I had forgotten that I needed to be strong for myself. My outward appearance for all those years with everyone I worked with in the world was one of strength and confidence, and it was true. Largely do to her belief in me and her support.

I have felt like the legs have been kicked out from under me. I have stumbled, there is no doubt.

I am aware now that the 'healing' isn't coming. I am not going to be healed of this wound. I accept that. I will endure it. As a friend once said to me, "there is no moving on, there is simply, move forward'. I understand and accept this.

Often, each morning after I get the kids off to school I sit at our giant kitchen table where so many meals and conversations had been shared and I stare at her chair. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night because I heard her voice, she said my name. Then the sleep fades and I know I am alone in the dark.

I walk in my woods again, down the paths through the birch and the aspen. I pass by the carving I made in the giant aspen the year we moved here. The snow is soft this year, and silent. I drift through the tall spruces that stand now twice the height than they did the first time I walked them. The creek still sings when I near it, but the song sounds different. I watched a young doe nervously chew needles and bark from a sapling and slowly drift away from me.

Spring is a long way off and winter is still upon us.