I know you don’t understand. I’m so thankful you don’t. I know time has passed. Somehow, the world kept turning, even when mine stopped. I’m back on the ride now, reluctantly, sometimes half-heartedly, but I’m showing up. I know I am changed. I forever will be. Maybe that’s what happens when you kiss a piece of your heart goodbye.
I know it’s hard to hear, see, comprehend. When you tossed around words like “stuck” or “move on”, I wanted to explain it all to you, not with anger or spite. No, friend. I wanted to explain the tenderness, the sweetness, the deep love that doesn’t fit into the neat lines and acceptable boundaries of this world. I wanted to tell you about the richness of it all, yet the words seemed to fail. Some sentiments and explanations are bigger than me, bigger than answers, bigger than I can succinctly share.
There are so many things I wanted to tell you, and in an effort to package it all nicely into a brief statement, thoughts and feelings have spent months running rampant through my mind, demanding to be felt, experienced, shared. It’s something bigger than me, bigger than any person or situation. It’s about death and a love that is greater.
So, I talk about him…
I talk about him, because grief doesn’t need to be experienced silently, especially when the silence is fueled by stigma and shame.
I talk about him, because frankly, acknowledging him is more important than the discomfort of acquaintances. As much as I never want to alienate people, he’s as familiar to me now as the air that I am breathing.
I talk about him, because it’s my prerogative. In a culture of bravely making your own choices, no matter which direction others are going in, this is mine.
I talk about him, because it’s one way I process and feel. Feelings demand to be felt, I’m learning, and the stuffing and pushing aside doesn’t leave room for the wounds to heal.
I talk about him, not because I’m stuck or because I haven’t moved on, but I talk about him because I am his, and he is mine, and no passage of time will ever change that.
I talk about him, not because I’m constantly living in pain. I’m not anymore, but in my world, this is my normal, and I’d rather live honestly and out loud. Joy, love, happiness, and gratefulness are my everyday, but so are death, loss, heartache, and grief.
Even more so…
I talk about him because I’m proud.
I talk about him, because he deserves to be remembered.
I talk about him, because even though he’s not physically with me, he’s never far from my mind.
I talk about him, because he’s part of me, a part that I could never ignore or disown.
I talk about him because I love him still, and I always will. Forever. Nothing will ever change that.
This is my normal. I know it’s hard to understand, and maybe that’s okay. When it comes to loving him, I will not be silent or hide away, and the bottom line is that is okay, too.
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