I wrote this May 29, 2018, a year and seven weeks after Rachel died.
I just did something I haven’t done in a long time — 59 weeks to be exact. I finished reading a novel. Sat completely absorbed in it for the better part of the past 2 1/2 days.
That shouldn’t be a big deal for me. I’ve probably read 2000-3000 novels in my 58 1/2 years on this earth. I was always one of those kids who would check out as many books at a time as the library would allow and read under the covers with a flashlight way past bedtime.
My girls’ default image when they were little is of me sitting at the table or on the couch with my nose in a book.
But for a year and 7 weeks I haven’t been able to read a novel. Binge watch Netflix with a bottle of wine, yes. More than I’d like to admit. Play endless hours of Scrabble, Mexican Train dominos, or mah jong on my phone until my mind is numb enough to ward off harsh dreams? uh huh. Read short stories in the wee hours when I can’t sleep and I’m sick of Facebook — sometimes. Submerge myself in “how to cope with grief” books like a newly sober person attending AA every night of the week . . . Yeah. Only accompanied by pizza, ice cream, wine, strong coffee (not necessarily in that order). Followed by tears. Lots of tears.
I also read my devotional faithfully, perhaps obsessively, every morning. Might as well take advantage of waking up early. Praying for faith and belief. Hoping, assuming desperately that the one not hearing clearly is me — not God. Every once in a while, being smacked right in the face with a lesson that leaves no doubt that it’s me. More tears. More strong coffee.
But this weekend I did something I’ve done countless times before. But not since Rachel died. I indulged in the deep pleasure of letting myself get completely absorbed in a fictional world. Barely shifting my position on the porch swing. Coming up to breathe after a surprising number of hours. Jealous of the writer’s talent but anxious to jump back in as soon as I get the dishes done.
It doesn’t matter what I read. What matters is that I did. I did something that I haven’t been able to do for 59 weeks. Something the old me did all the time. Something I didn’t/don’t think I deserve to be able to do.
I feel guilty. I should be mourning; I should be grieving. There’s a difference, you know. I’m still grieving. Maybe I always will be in certain ways. But maybe, just maybe I’m getting past the mourning.
I should be happy about that, but I’m not.
So, why am I posting these words now, five years later? Because, sweet parent, if you are early in your grief journey, and you are feeling like you will never get back to “normal,” you are not alone. If you have days when you do something “normal” and then feel guilty, you are not alone.
And, if you are five years or ten years or thirty years down this path and still have “grief relapses,” you are not alone.
I had a hard grief season this year. A good friend lost her daughter in mid-November. I spoke at the funeral. I have spent a lot of time talking with my friend, letting her vent and cry. And, yet still feeling helpless to soften her grief. Or mine. I let myself sink back into my not-so-healthy coping mechanisms. Staring at my phone and playing mind-numbing games. Reading nothing more substantial than social media posts and overreacting to my husband’s concerned comments about how stressed I seemed.
Fortunately, it didn’t take a year to pull myself out of the mire this time. Admitting my depression and moodiness helped. Talking to a dear friend who is a pastor and a grief counselor helped. Praying while I walked for hours along quiet dirt roads helped. Just knowing that now I know what to do when I feel my feet sinking into the mire helps.
I should be happy about that, but I’m not.
Laura
A Light for My Path 
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