Last night I went to bed at 10:00 pm.  I don’t remember going to bed this early since Shawn died.  But, then again, I haven’t been remembering many things very well lately.  I have noticed with grief comes the side effect of short-term memory loss.  My mind is often foggy. 

Sleep was overdue.  And last night my body thanked me for allowing it to rest.  I have been living in a pattern of many late nights relinquishing my energy to a new full time career called loss.  It’s not that I cannot fall asleep at night.  It is that I don’t want to.  It’s not that I am not tired, because I am.  Here is what I think it may be.  I don’t want to not grieve, if that makes any sense.  Once my kids are settled into bed the house becomes a quiet sanctuary.  I can write or cry or read or stare into space and not feel an obligation to answer to anyone.  I don’t have to answer the phone or pretend to be happy or try to act normal.  I can be sad.  I can miss him.  I can follow this path as it has been set before me. 

I have been told about denial.  It has been described to me that I may feel anger.  I realize that I will experiment with bargaining and over indulging in order to feel whole again.  I wonder if my approach to tragedy sounds like torture; forcing myself to stay up against my body’s better judgment in order to feel every last part of me that is able to feel.  As I write, it seems like bitter agony.  But, isn’t that what grief is?  A process of agony into acceptance?

I am stubborn with this pain.  I want to walk right through the heart of it; facing every piece of it. I am not looking for the shortest route to the other side of this grief journey.  Shawn is in the middle of my anguish and I want to meet him there. 

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