Another Throw Back Thursday post:
The cycles I’ve noticed are interesting.
For the first month, it seemed to be sad day, sad day, sad day, mad day, roller coaster day, repeat. At about the month mark, it turned into sad day, roller coaster day, ok day, repeat. Which means that ok days are working their way in.
His sister and I looked up mourning periods that were normal in the Victorian era, wondering if that might provide some sort of idea how long this crazy emotionality might last.
The length of mourning depended on your relationship to the deceased. The different periods of mourning dictated by society were expected to reflect your natural period of grief. Widows were expected to wear full mourning for two years. Everyone else presumably suffered less – for children mourning parents or vice versa the period of time was one year, for grandparents and siblings six months, for aunts and uncles two months, for great uncles and aunts six weeks, for first cousins four weeks.
She commented that she wasn’t sure where that put me. I have no idea. I’m also slightly skeptical of the shorter amount of time for parents, as that seems odd to me.
Maybe it’s better that I’m not exactly represented on the scale… Gives me freedom to do whatever is right for me. Right now, I can’t see ever being ok again… Not really. The ok days I have are all tinged with sadness, anger, guilt, pain. A couple of my friends have mentioned me moving on and finding someone else, and I know why they say it, but I honestly can’t begin to imagine finding that acceptable, much less interesting.
But time will pass, and I’m sure eventually, I’ll get there. Maybe. Right now, I don’t want to.
I miss his grin, the twinkle in his eye when he was up to no good. I miss sitting on opposite ends of his couch under the blanket, holding each other’s feet. I even miss the bruises I’d get when he got so involved in whatever we were watching that he’d hit or squeeze my shins. I miss the pterodactyl sounds he’d make when he was getting tired and drunk. The “Uh oh” before he farted.
I feel like a broken record. I miss him. Of course I miss him. I’ve said it before, I’ll probably say it again… a million times. I don’t know why I feel the need to keep saying it. Do I fear that people won’t think I do? Do I just need to say it, to get it out? Do I feel the need to prove my love, prove myself? I think all of those ring a little true. But more than that, I think I feel the need to remind the world of what it’s lost. Make sure he’s not forgotten. Make sure that as time goes by, I don’t end up forgetting the little things, because I know they’ll slowly fade. I can’t bear to think that I’ll lose any more of him than I already have, even though I know I will. There’s no way to remember everything. There’s no way to document and catalog every little habit, every expression, every sound. I wish there were.
Maybe though… Maybe it’s good that there’s not. Because I have a feeling that if it were possible to keep everything fresh, it would be that much harder to eventually come out of mourning. And as terrible and sad as that seems to me, it’s necessary.
Eventually, the cycles will contain mostly ok, or even good days. Eventually, I’ll be able to be happy without the tinge of sadness. Life moves on until one day it doesn’t. And when it doesn’t any more for me, then, and only then, will the cycles stop. And then I’ll find out what the new cycles are, if there are any.
Until then, I’ll keep turning my circles, riding my roller coaster, trying to do so as painlessly and gracefully as possible. And hope that I keep learning, growing, and healing.
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