Fog can’t last forever – or can it?
“No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear.”– C.S Lewis
I’ve felt more like myself this past week than I have in a while. It’s a strange feeling. I feel more like myself, but I am still so far away from who I was. It’s a new normal, right? I hate it.
I heard a description of living in grief this weekend that really resonated with me. It’s like walking in a fog and you’re trying to see through it to the edge. Trying to get to the end of it. This week, I’ve felt like the fog is finally starting to clear up. It’s not gone, but I can see a little better.
When I woke up this morning, I thought more about the fog. The scary thing about starting to feel like myself again, is the fear of something happening that knocks me back in the thick of the fog. The idea of that happening created such a fear inside of me.
And then it happened. Not even an hour after my thoughts of being scared to be deep in the fog again, I got news that knocked me back in. And it crippled me. And I didn’t want to get out of bed.
I started getting upset and angry. I snapped at Scott, I could feel myself losing all control. I started bawling. I felt the weight on top of me. And then I realized that I was allowing a situation I couldn’t control, affect a day with my husband and family that I could control. And I got up, wiped my tears, and enjoyed breakfast with him & my parents.
I started my journey back through the fog.
Later in the day, I road my bike 7 miles to clear my head. On my way home, I got a text from Scott that a friend text and asked him how it felt to be a proud papa. My heart broke for him. He was already trying to support me through my struggles in the fog, and now he gets knocked back in with me.
It sure doesn’t feel like being a good person pays off some days.
But Scott and I joined hands, and continued our walk together through the fog. We finished our day cooking dinner for my parents, and laughed as we learned how to use our new European outlet converters for our upcoming trip to Russia.
It’s hard explaining how difficult normal tasks can be. Sometimes I think people forget I can’t always handle what’s being thrown at me, like I did before Kellan died. Words that never hurt me, do hurt me now. I hang on to words spoken to me. I think about things said to me over and over and over. Simple phrases like telling me you don’t care, stab me in the gut. I am strong, but I am fragile.
And then sometimes, I have no feelings at all. None. I shut off my emotions and heart, and become a brick wall. I don’t care about anyone or anything except for my husband, my family, and my dog. Everything happening around me is just noise. I close myself off as a form of protection.
I never know which version of me is going to be around. Feeling like normal Tiffany. Overly sensitive Tiffany, or iced soul Tiffany. I’m not sure I like any of them.
My son was pronounced dead 931 hours ago. Just typing that makes me instantly stop breathing. Tears immediately pour from my burning eyes. My entire life was stolen from me. The world just moves on and I’m expected to move on too. And I’m trying. But it’s only been 931 hours.
38 days, 12 hours, 20 minutes.
1 month, 7 days, 12 hours, 20 minutes.
5 weeks, 3 days, 12 hours, 20 minutes.
No matter how I type it, it feels just as horrible as the day he died. I can still see his perfect lips. I can still hear my husband’s shaking voice, telling me Kellan was perfect. It makes my body lurch forward in pain to think about. I thought I was past this pain. I’m not.
The fog is thick.
There are no words to describe the pain besides unbearable.
So just know, while life moves on and everyone goes back to their normal day to day, my life is still on auto-pilot. 931 hours later. When it comes to things that I’m uncomfortable with, I can’t just deal with it. I can’t just try. I have to do what I can, or I will shut down. I’m doing what I can.
I wish that I could pause life while I deal with my grief, so that later, I can un-pause and properly handle things that are important. But I am working on coming to terms with the fact that I can’t do this. People aren’t going to pause their lives for me, and they aren’t going to wait for me. It’s just not going to happen no matter how much I want it to. And I have to accept it.
Life will move on, with or without me. So even if I do things I may regret, or make moves that aren’t the best long term, it’s okay. I am doing the best I can. It’s all I can do. I can’t expect others to protect me.
I am navigating through the fog. It is thick again, but I will make my way to the edge. And when I get knocked back in again, and we know I will, I will start my journey yet again. Fog can’t last forever – or can it?