Two-And-A-Half

I think the shock is wearing off now.

Running errands today, the clouds billowed above me, white and grey and bright against the stormy sky. Tiny specks moved like an arrow across the white backdrop, birds in their v formations. They’re escaping the cold maybe, and my throat tightens at the beauty of their synergy.

Everything reminds me of her. I looked desperately for signs of her in the first weeks after her death, and now the reminders close in on me and suddenly I’m frozen in place at Target, with an urge to find a cute new top for Anni. No place for that urge to go, except in hot tears down my face. Emma wanders in and out of the clothing racks and I sit next to the dog mannequin and silently fume at the flip-flops on display right in front of me, their cheery rainbow soles mock my stormy mood.

I wonder if the first two-and-a-half months were a grief daze. Going through the motions of telling friends and family that she died. Planning her memorial service. Picking up her ashes from the funeral home. Things feel harder now. I definitely had my days punctuated by moments of intense grief, but this is different. This feels like an uncomfortably tight turtleneck, the collar strangling me.

What to do with the tightness of grief? What to do with the dark days, the unmotivated mornings, the quiet nights?

I go outside.

I go to the gym.

I cry in my car and pound on the steering wheel and wail.

I snuggle with the kids.

I watch junk TV with Ryan.

I eat crummy food.

I take a nap.

I skip my homework.

I meditate every morning. Sometimes 15 minutes is all I can stand, and other times I shake myself after an hour.

I tell some people who are closest to me when I’m not doing okay.

I am looking for a therapist. Maybe one who specializes in EMDR. Or hypnotherapy. Haven’t done that before.

I go on walks and hikes and make myself play even though I’m sad that I don’t have Anni to play with when I would try my best to get a smile or maybe even a giggle from her.

I fight with my kids. I fight with my husband.

I apologize to all, including myself.

I let them see me cry. I’m learning to let others see that too.

I read books about grief and creativity and truth-telling.

I know the pendulum will swing back again. It always does.

So I just keep making choices I know are good for me and sometimes choices I know are bad for me. Because life, this glorious, painful, bottomed-out, euphoric spin cycle, is worth living. Life is worth paying attention to. Life is lived in the moments. The delicious, heartbreaking, tired-eyed, heart-heavy, worn moments. The pendulum will swing and I’ll swing along with it, head tilted back, feet in the air, stomach flipping, with a knowing smile on my face.