I suffered this weekend, gypsy style.
Music, drinks, and revelry replaced sleep, food and the gaping hole in my heart. My family gathered and let me feel, as uncomfortable as feeling can be.
Do I wish I had another outlet for pain? Of course, but not because this method isn't fun. Only because I feel completely and utterly selfish taking three days to scream against that pain, allowing myself to bear grief like labor... Eventually producing the quietness and calm that comes after pressing yourself sharply against the universe to feel a resistance. Grief is not a sentence. I have to appeal, even if it means I do the same time.
I regret only that I took, instead of giving. I wanted badly to reconnect with my people, and did. But only because they were willing to come to me. I'm very thankful for that.
I do take issue with the fact that I counseled someone about guilt and letting it go, and then penitently posted this blog because of my own guilt. Well, sometimes those who can't do, teach. It's better than nothing.
The best part? Knowing that I experience pain with this intensity, means I will experience joy the same way. I just need to remember this lesson when it comes around. Feeling is a gift. A unique talent that is acquired with vigor.
The hole in my heart is not gone, but now it isn't as obvious. Thank you, Teresa. You're my recovery touchstone.