Day 33: This is Me. And just a slice of my story.
My daughter has only ever slept on me when she is sick. I realized recently that I captured some of these moments. The first picture is in May of 2020. The second is in October of 2021.
In legal speak, my marriage ended in Dec 2021. One day before my daughter turned 5.
In real life, my marriage ended in February of 2020. Days before my panicked trip to the grocery store for canned goods.
A pandemic has been either the best time or worst time to live the implosion of the life that I thought I wanted. I haven’t decided yet.
These are my first selfies. Ever. What I find most distressing in the first photo is how blank my eyes are—staring apathetically into some abyss. I can see the wreckage of sleeplessness and my seething, violently pummeled heart. When I look back, I wonder how my child could even find comfort there.
In the second photo, almost a year and a half later, I see myself reappearing. Finding this photo last week was validating. Because that is actually how I feel now. Here. Alive. Full of heartache and beauty. Full of grief and gratitude. Full of wounds and a broken-openness.
My grief needed a project, and this writing showed up. My grief needed fellow travelers, and my clients gifted me their presence. My grief needed a next-door-neighbor-who-gets-it @joyjulwrites, and she was there. My grief needed a best pal @gowhillikers, and she answered the phone and helped clean out closets. My grief awaited the village, and they showed @lingjesslee@carringtonl@giantasscinnamonroll@bbrookens40@megan.hatch.1@emilyh35@annaarzt@dezibee3@evcha@wng77@klofberg@grabowruizfamily@susiecampbell09
My heart is full today. And I’m going to run with it. Thank you, all.
Welcome to my second, 100-day project. I hope to provide a daily offering on something grief-related. I am a grief therapist and educator working with people in Oregon, Washington, DC, Maryland, and Maine. This feed is in honor of each person who has trusted me with their stories and wisdom during their grief journey.
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