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I’m sure it’s more than obvious now. It seems I’m on an extended and unexpected blogging break. Here’s the why of what’s going on with me.
That may seem so obvious to many. I get it. But there’s more.
I’m not dealing with my grief.
Not even a little bit.
I’m not getting or taking or doing anything with my grief.
I thought I would. I have moments or days where it seems I’m OK, like when I wrote about the comforts of normalcy.
On those days, I make plans and it appears the overall, general, and crushing sadness and awareness has lessened.
Then, I sit. Or lay.
That’s what happens a day or so after doing anything.
I barely get through the day. I barely move from one moment to the next. I’m foggy, unmotivated, tired (I’m always tired, but this is an emotional tiredness). I’m sad, hurting, and frustrated at every little thing.
So much serves as a reminder. From the smiles of my boys, to the new learnings and growing of our family, the memories and the losses.
And the tasks. Oh the tasks.
Sometimes they send me on this angry-frustrated-hurting tailspin. Other times it seems I walk through them OK.
Until I’m not OK.
I don’t cry. I rarely shed even a few tears. I don’t talk. Not about my dad’s death and how I’m feeling. I don’t share the hurt, confusion, understanding, love, pain, sorrow, feeling lost, any of it.
I want to go away.
And I want to stay right here, with my guys.
I want to be with my dad. Not in death, but in spirit or presence.
I want so much that I can’t (or don’t) have right now.
Right now there are the tasks. The thinking and the sorting and the figuring out of things.
And then there are my wonderful boys. Right here wanting me, needing me. These lovely boys of mine are oh so very important and I need to be here, the best that I can. I need to be as present as possible.
So, I trudge through the days.
And I’m heavy. I’m so heavy I can barely stand it myself. Yet, I keep doing it all. I keep doing the everything.
Filing court documents. Having to spend a day out of town doing the tasks, with the boys no less. Only to return home to my home and the family tasks. And still needing to do more tasks. All the while, knowing I’m not done with this cycle.
The weight of the tasks. Oh boy the weight.
It’s so so so hard to sit and talk about the tasks. And to do the tasks that need done. It’s so hard, it hurts. I mean physically hurts.
Yet, I don’t cry.
And I don’t talk.
And so, even though I want to talk. No, even though I need to talk, I don’t.
I don’t because I know what that looks like for me. I don’t because I also don’t know what that looks like for me.
I know what I need to do. I know all the needing-ness. And I fear the crushing vulnerability, sadness, pain, and loss.
I’m not afraid to feel it and do it. I’m afraid I don’t know what it looks like for me. Because, I know how hard these things are for me. And I know what a struggle it is for me to get through when there are tasks. I know how paralyzing grief can be for me. And I know the kind of focus and attention, the heightened vulnerability, and space I need in order to face and work through my grief. And I know, right now, I don’t have any of that.
So, I’m not doing anything that I need to do for me and my grief.
I’m doing what needs done right now. I’m doing the only things I have space for – the tasks.
My dad’s tasks, helping my mom, the mom/wife/household tasks, and the being as present as I can with my guys tasks.
And that’s all I have space for.
So, yes, grief is why I’m on this unexpected and extended blogging break. But it’s oh so much more than that.
I want to write. I want to share. I want to engage and be involved. I do, oh how badly I do. Yet, I can’t. I can’t because I’m not getting into me right now. I will. I know I will. And I want to. I want to now, soon, always.
But, until I can get into me, I’m on this unexpected extended blogging break. And I’m writing and drafting in private. Even though I want to return.
And I will come back, I just don’t really know when. I’ll stop in from time to time, I’m sure. I just can’t commit, not right now, not to another thing, not even to myself.