Say Something
Grieving, feeling, hurting, living, breathing song of the day: Say Something by A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera
I have been looking at grief as a process. It's not. It's not a neat little box I can store all of my pain in.
"And I am feeling so small. It was over my head. I know nothing at all."
I'm allowing my heart, mind, and soul to expand. I'm seeing the unbelievable number of ways and times I have numbed myself to pain. The huge extent to which I have numbed myself to pain. Little did I know that I was also numbing myself to joy, connection, love, and beauty. Also to a huge extent.
"And I will stumble and fall. I'm still learning to love. Just starting to crawl."
I'm finally learning to love. But damn, it's painful. I thought I knew how to love. I didn't. My love, my grief, my laughter, my tears - so much of my "human experience" has been dictated by what I thought other people expected from me. I'm learning how to feel, how to love, how to see, as if for the first time.
It's like walking from a dim but familiar room out into the sunlight. Painful and a little terrifying but glorious, liberating, and somehow right.
But I keep creeping back into the dim room because it's safe, known, small, comfortable. I know how to survive there. I don't know how to survive in the great big world. The strong part of my soul is finally waking up and finding its voice to encourage me to keep looking out that door, to keep trying again, to keep letting myself see, feel, and love the vastness of reality. It's still a battle. Always a battle.
"And I will swallow my pride. You're the one that I love. And I'm saying goodbye."
Some part of me wants to believe that he never truly loved me. But that would be lying and numbing and I don't want to consciously do that to myself anymore. I am still grieving the hope and promise of love. I am grieving the potential I saw to love and be loved wholeheartedly. That grief is messy, confusing, and imperfect. I cannot perfectly work through an imperfect process. I need to forgive myself for "messing it up." There's no right way, no perfect path to follow.
There are lessons in imperfection. There is grace in imperfection. In all my imperfection, I find a path to truth, light, goodness, and God.
I have been looking at grief as a process. It's not. It's not a neat little box I can store all of my pain in.
"And I am feeling so small. It was over my head. I know nothing at all."
I'm allowing my heart, mind, and soul to expand. I'm seeing the unbelievable number of ways and times I have numbed myself to pain. The huge extent to which I have numbed myself to pain. Little did I know that I was also numbing myself to joy, connection, love, and beauty. Also to a huge extent.
"And I will stumble and fall. I'm still learning to love. Just starting to crawl."
I'm finally learning to love. But damn, it's painful. I thought I knew how to love. I didn't. My love, my grief, my laughter, my tears - so much of my "human experience" has been dictated by what I thought other people expected from me. I'm learning how to feel, how to love, how to see, as if for the first time.
It's like walking from a dim but familiar room out into the sunlight. Painful and a little terrifying but glorious, liberating, and somehow right.
But I keep creeping back into the dim room because it's safe, known, small, comfortable. I know how to survive there. I don't know how to survive in the great big world. The strong part of my soul is finally waking up and finding its voice to encourage me to keep looking out that door, to keep trying again, to keep letting myself see, feel, and love the vastness of reality. It's still a battle. Always a battle.
"And I will swallow my pride. You're the one that I love. And I'm saying goodbye."
Some part of me wants to believe that he never truly loved me. But that would be lying and numbing and I don't want to consciously do that to myself anymore. I am still grieving the hope and promise of love. I am grieving the potential I saw to love and be loved wholeheartedly. That grief is messy, confusing, and imperfect. I cannot perfectly work through an imperfect process. I need to forgive myself for "messing it up." There's no right way, no perfect path to follow.
There are lessons in imperfection. There is grace in imperfection. In all my imperfection, I find a path to truth, light, goodness, and God.
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