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.