two years

I want to believe your voice I hear on the passing groans of winds,
Each strand of hair your tender kiss grazed upon my wishing lips,
My ears long trained turned to the skies,
Is intimate love you’ve left behind,
Earthbound it lingers here inside.

“Wow. Two years already? … Time flies.”
No. No it doesn’t. But lots changes.

I have done a lot. In two years I feel I have done an extraordinary amount of things. My greatest accomplishment, as far as I can tell, has been staying distracted enough to allow my grief to wane and my life to keep going despite a desperate desire to crumple into a ball and repeat gibberish until the end of my days. A desire I did not give into, but anyone who has experienced the agony of loss knows its pull is strong. I resisted though. And here I am – not exactly happy, but I’m alive. And I still have a life – a bewildering life, but I’m changing and moulding it back into my own each day.

What has struck me as important in this past year, a milestone – so to say, is I’ve become very aware of my emotional heart and how I have built an extensive defensive system – a labyrinth of automated reactions – to guard my wounded and forlorn core. It’s important because it was a defence system that sprung up overnight and yet I had no idea how to navigate it, until now. What that means is I have slowly and carefully regained control and have been allowing myself to dare and venture and let life have meaning again. I’ve let myself feel the world around me and risked more pain. Amazing. Risk. Filled with the possibility of happiness again. Perhaps love. Perhaps more pain. But auto-pilot is no way to live.

I don’t cry all the time anymore. In fact, I have gotten fed up with my own internal angst. I still cry when I picture the way Dave looked at me. When I picture his eyes and his cute little lip-biting smirk. When I feel his hands on my shoulders – tears, pain, sadness. But those moments are mostly private and I can fake it when they’re not.

I don’t picture what life would’ve been like. I don’t torture myself with such things. And I think that’s maybe where a lot of people lose the plot. Instead I have just kept my sights diverted to a time when I can dare and chance and falter and flail. T’he possibility of failing is alluring – for that means I’ve really tried something.

My spark is still stuck in the fortress. I keep negotiating for its release, but my core keeps saying I haven’t earned it yet. I figure the heart knows, so I keep learning and moving and progressing. Bereavement is a weird process, but one I will cautiously say I am grateful to have experienced. My perspective of what matters is completely different. And I haven’t quite come to the end of my soul searching and decided how losing Dave has changed all these things in me. All I know is I am not the same. I notice it everyday. And some of it I’m not happy with – like my spark. There will be an internal battle to reclaim that shortly.

I’m grateful to have seen the dark-side, though. It’s ghastly. My advice – do not linger there long. Parts of you will disappear into its depths. New parts will take their place and they will be like hardy weeds in your mind.

I will always miss Dave – for there is a part of my heart that will never make it out of that fortress. And that’s okay. For two years ago today I was eagerly waiting for that man to come home and start our journey together. And two years ago today my world was shattered. But while it has taken two years to piece together much of my life, I am pleased that I have put something back together. There are things that can happen in life. Horrible things. Devastating things. And they will happen to almost all of us in time. But it is what we do when these encounters occur that defines our todays and tomorrows. I choose to keep having a life.

“No life is worth living. You have to make it worth living.” ~ Winston Churchill.
My sentiments exactly.



About humanbeen

I'm a has-been that was. I'm a dreamer that does.
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1 Response to two years

  1. Wow Sheri. Two years. I can’t imagine how difficult this journey has been for you, yet you are so healthy, well-adjusted, and strong. Your writing is beautiful. I know how healing it is.
    Hope to see you again soon. Lots of love to you today, and everyday!

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