There are so many books about the grieving process, about what you should feel and how you should maneuver the emotions in the wake of tragedy... But what about all those months, and even years later, when you are still struggling to put a name to emotions, and you are still in the throws of the battle with grief?
Where are the experts? Where is the quirky gal with the relatable story? Where is everyone?
Moved on. That's where. Moved on and forgotten about those people who can't conceive moving on.
Forward. That's the direction I guess I'm going. But "on" is this elusive enigma that doesn't make sense. What does moving on look like? How does moving on feel? "Moving on" sounds like when I got dumped by what's-his-name in high school, and I had all good things ahead of me. I don't look back 15 years later with regret. In fact, this is probably the first time I've thought about it since I grew up, got married and had kids... Grieving the death of a sibling doesn't look like that. It doesn't feel like that and I can't 'move on' like that. There are no bigger and better things ahead for me. Only the grief I carry around like spotty sunglasses, always dimming the sights just a little, and making my view of the world just a little bit darker. Messier.
I think I'm starting to really understand my cycle. My grief cycle. The calendar pages flip as the months fly by, but the grief cycle is constant and steady. Days 26-18 of each month are great. Sure, I think of my brother and remember some funny thing he did or said, but the days are happy and routine. Then comes the 19th. Like an angry avenger, she slays the joy and replaces it with doubt, guilt, and so much sadness that I can't hardly stand it. To combat the anger, I get angry- and while you may roll your eyes because you can't possibly understand, you can trust that it's a thing. It's real.
So... I'm angry. I waffle between irritated with the world and God's people in it, and straight-up lividity. (That's a thing, too.) I seem harmless and some people buy-off on my fake enthusiasm for life. But the few people who are close to me get the full dose of my angry self. I don't hold back. And it isn't pretty.
By the time the 24th rolls around, I'm angred-out and all that is left is a puddle of tears and some pretty heavy bags under my eyes. The 24th is the one day of the month that I allow myself to be in-the-moment, emotionally. Which means that I cry. A lot. I am happy and I am angry and I cry about it all. It's all a blur of tears.
The 25th is the day that I wish would disappear from the calendar. I don't want to think about my brother, or mention his name. It sounds cliché but to me, being sad on the monthly anniversary of the day my brother died, just because it's that day. Maybe I'm an idiot. Maybe that's ridiculous. I can't help it... That's just me. Maybe I'm cliché.
When the sun sets, and all the people who like to think they have some clue as to what missing Ryan even looks like have crawled back into their holes, I say a prayer and go to sleep. And so starts the cycle of another month, of another year...
I don't know where I'm going with this. And truth-be-told, I'm irritated that I don't have a clear goal with this post.
I guess this is just a glimpse at the authentic scattered mind of a grieving sister. A fresh look into the thoughts of the broken hearted.
