I remember the first day I went to group, and how the tears just came. I came in late, sat at the edge of the table and listened. And every single story brought me closer to the edge. When it was my turn, I couldn’t speak. I devolved into tears.
I think about those days now. It’s been just about a year since then. In those early days, most things were harder. But grief was easier. It was always present.
I wonder, today, if this is still grief? I wonder if tears have morphed into anger. I wonder if my short temper and hurt feelings are different ways of missing you?
I sit in class, and I feel bored. I sit in class, and I feel anger. I’m starting to understand my new world, and I hate it. I hate everything. I hate most of all not feeling connected to you.
And this has to be part of it, I’m thinking. Because my grief for you feels so far away. And I can’t call upon tears, and I can’t find my thoughts of you, and this is worse to me than those early days full of screaming.
I miss you. I’m aching. Because I’m not able to miss you.
