The Wound

 I was happy most of yesterday.  I've been pretty content since January 2. This is because I got through the awful holidays and learned what I need to do to get through them. I need to be by myself and not be criticized for my sorrow.  I need to be away from all the celebration and fucking people. I've come to realize that one of the reasons I kept wanting to kill myself was because I wasn't "healing" and "moving forward" as fast as people wanted me to do.

What I was trying to do was "heal."

What I was trying to do was find a normal that wasn't "new."

What I was imagining was that the wound would heal over and stop bleeding.

It will.  But I was wrong about the size of the wound and what cauterization of it would look like.

Goldie Hawn in Death Becomes Her (1992)

 

 

 I now understand that the wound has changed me and there's no going back to some former self. I have given up thinking that there will ever be a time when I won't suddenly burst into tears at realization of the absence. 

And the great thing is, I can cry anytime I want to and as long as I want to.

I can go to his grave and look at his beautiful face whenever I want to.

And I can pretend I'm okay if I need to do so but won't spend much time around anybody who needs me to do that.  

It's good that I'm an introvert.  I'm no longer bothered by going for days (weeks?) without seeing anyone as I settle into the new me.  I actually like it because when I'm by myself I don't have to hide myself. Last year I was hating people for leaving me by myself but the fire of that experience just tells me that except for two or three people, I don't care for most so why worry if they don't visit me?

I know now that I can call people, reach out to people and connect, now that I no longer actually need to do so.  That's some irony, right there.  

I'm so glad that I have tools now and that the hardest time (until I myself am dying) seems to be over.