Hear that? Yeah... I didn't either.

Hear that? Yeah... I didn't either.

I thought I had tip-toed and made it through, unscathed.  It had been a few months since my last "episode".   I had been playing in the tunnels... no sign, of that wicked locomotive, in sight.  And then it happened.  WHAM!  I was stuck to the front end of the grief train, that was careening out of control.  There is no way to describe how it feels when it hits.  It physically hurts.  Your heart feels like it has been ripped from your chest, and shattered into a million pieces.  And you are there, searching frantically for each little piece, and then becomes the task of trying to stitch it back together.  Maybe superglue is a better option.  And duct tape.  I haven't tried that yet. 

It is so disheartening when it happens.  I am happy!  I am in love and am loving this life I am living.  The people I share this life with, are nothing short of incredible.  Each day is a gift!  Blah, blah, blah.   And in the midst of my depression, all I hear is Charlie Brown's teacher.  Blah, blah, blah.  There is nothing that will make this better.  I sleep.  A LOT.  Mostly, because I become so miserable, I can't even stand myself. And if there is any possibility that I could cry, I will.  Commercials, dinner didn't turn out quite right, my gas light came on in the car, or the fact that no one in Gallatin county understands how a 4-way stop works, could send me into a cry session that would dehydrate a camel.  

Grief is a fickle little creature, my friends.  And we are all different in how we react to tragedy or trauma.  I am learning, little by little, that we don't give ourselves permission to take care of our souls, enough.  Sometimes, it's ok to go to bed at 7:00 pm and let Dominoes cook the kid's dinner.  We deserve to take a long hot bath and cry it out, if we need to.  It seems the tears, or the release, rather, is healthy.  Have a glass of wine, or a piece of cake.  Allow those indulgences that make us feel a little better.  Just don't drink the entire bottle of wine, or eat the whole cake, by yourself.  Or at least not in one sitting.  (Says the girl who, single-handedly, devoured two, Costco, pumpkin pies, in three days, during Thanksgiving, last year.  And I think my friends and I kept the Oreo company's numbers, in the black, for quite a few months.  Hey. We all have our vices.)

The beautiful thing about the grief train, it seems it has a schedule to keep.  The stop at my station gets shorter and farther in between visits, as time goes on.  When it's time for that joyous moment, when it fires up the engines and rolls on to it's next victim, I wave good-bye, like a little kid at a parade.  I have made it through many of these trips.  And I'm sure I am in for quite a few more.  But my resilience is still very alive and well.  I get back up, clutching my bag of battered and bruised heart, and start building scars again.  

There is life beyond the death of someone we love so much.  And those souls will always be alive within us.  Love does not end with the last breath.  

Much love and thanks for taking the time to read this!  



Published by Niccole Arnold

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