Saturday, October 4, 2014

Moving Past Fear

I've spent today lying around, sitting around, blowing my nose, watching TV, drinking tea, browsing the internet, and thinking. It's amazing how much thinking can occur when you don't even realize you're thinking. I'll finish watching a TV show only to notice that I didn't retain the last 15 minutes because my mind wandered to deeper things. 

I find myself imagining conversations with Rick. I feel like I know exactly what he would say in so many situations. It's comforting, but it's also sad. I sit in my living room, nodding my head up and down to the sound of his voice that isn't here. 

Months later, I am still unable to wrap my head around the fact that he is not coming back. Factually, logically, I know it. But no matter what I do, no matter how many days pass, no matter how times I push reality into my brain, it still does not feel real. 

I can't understand how after 4 and a half months of this, my heart is so unwilling to "get it." The lack of closure messes with me. There was no slow progression towards death. There was no indication that May 18th would be different than any other day. The unexpected nature of Rick's death has created this weird stretch of time during which I am still coming to terms with everything that has occurred. I have been over this so many times. And mind is still a turning wheel. 

Since he left this world so suddenly, his death feels like a problem to be fixed. I walk around day after day with the feeling that I must come up with a solution to what has happened. Typically in life, 1) Bad Thing happens suddenly. 2) You try to fix it and make it better. 

There is no fixing this and it feels so...bad. I've read all the books. I've counseled other people. I understand the psychology of grief. I comprehend the trauma of tragedy. But somewhere deep inside, I'm still looking for a solution to the problem that is Rick's suicide.

And there is none. There is only acceptance. And hope. And grieving. And grieving is really taking a lot out of me.

I am afraid.

Fear is ever-present. What will it feel like to let go? To hammer into my head that there is no solution, only support to move forward. What will it feel like to stop hearing Rick's voice? To forget the way his hand felt when it touched mine? His smell? The exact way his eyebrows curved or even the way he walked? To not remember exactly the way his laugh sounds? What will it feel like to not cry every day? It's all I know. What will it feel like to let grief unfold into life without him?

Like a whisper in my ear, matter-of-fact and firm, Rick would say, "You can't let fear rule your life, Arielle." 

1 comment:

  1. My heart aches for you, Arielle. You really are grieving with grace, as I think one of your colleagues said. But you are still grieving. It's ok to be afraid, it's ok to feel lost, it's ok to not want to forget. Everyone's road out of grieving is different, and we all walk it with different shoes. You're walking it so beautifully and I have so much admiration for you. Sometimes it must feel so hard and so painful, like trying to run a marathon in the strappiest, spindliest, pinch-iest stilettos. Just know that you have so many cheerleaders along your path, and we'll be here whether you're inching along in those tight, painful shoes, as you will be some days, or racing on in leaps and bounds in the squidgiest and most comfortable running shoes, like you'll be on others xxx


Help me feel less alone.