It’s been almost two months since I lost my Dad.
I thought things would start to get easier. I thought I would get back to my normal life, my normal routine, and the pain would ease.
But the pain is still there, sneaking up on me throughout the day, scraping its claws against my heart, knocking the wind out of my lungs, threatening to unhinge my emotions and bring me to tears.
The grief hangs on, refusing to let go, refusing to let me move on. I hide away in my closet and let the tears flow, gasping for breath as the raw emotions take hold, I curl into a ball, and accept the brutal reality: He’s gone. He’s never coming back. I will never see him again. I won’t ever get to say the things left unsaid, I won’t ever be able to hug him again, to tell him I love him, or hear his laugh. There is nothing left now but an emptiness where he once lived.
The pain is so great and so real, there are many days when I want to climb into bed, curl up under the covers, and sleep for a month. Maybe then I would wake up and realize it’s all been a nightmare, that my Dad is still alive.
Even as I type this, the weight of the grief is heavy on my shoulders. I hear his voice in my head, and it stops me in my tracks. My heart beats fast, my eyes begin to cloud with tears, and the darkness threatens to swallow me whole.
One day at a time, one hour at a time, I travel through this valley. Everyone keeps telling me there is light at the other side, so I continue to put one foot in front of the other until I see the sun shining once again.
But oh, it is lonely and hard here in the dark.