I don’t know what it was tonight, but it came out of nowhere. As if I was walking down a busy street and suddenly was attacked and robbed. Or as if I was sitting on my beach chair on the sandy shores only to have a bird fly over and shit on my head.
I had picked up my guitar and started playing a song that I absolutely love called Let The Silence Speak by Jaylene Johnson. Admittedly, it’s a sad song, but one I find a lot of comfort in. As I plucked the strings and softly sang
no comfort to be found
tears fall without a sound
the angel marks each one
for this is holy ground
the tears began to well and gently caress my cheeks as the rolled down toward my chin.
Maybe it was the song. Maybe it’s the warmer weather. Maybe it’s because it’s been a little while since I visited our son’s grave. Maybe it’s because our oldest son has been missing him a lot lately. Maybe it’s because I’m going on a guys trip this weekend and I can’t stop thinking about how one of my sons won’t be there for this incredible moment. Maybe it’s because I’ve been speaking to some groups of people about my experience with grief and mental health. Maybe it was the doxology at church this past week.
Maybe it’s a lot of things individually or collectively. I don’t know.
What I do know is that this August it’ll be three years already. Three years without our child.
Some days grief doesn’t get easier. Some days it drags me kicking and screaming back to that moment where there was pure silence in the delivery room.
Sure I’ve developed better coping skills to help me through those days and moments. I listen to what my body and soul need within that moment, and take a break if I’m able. I go for a run or workout to clear my head. I sit and do my meditation practice and practice feeling all the feelings. Or sometimes I just get busy and work my way through it.
Most days I’m okay. I love talking about our son and take every opportunity to strike up a conversation, write about him, or speak to groups about grief. And then, every now and then, I have days or moments where it feels like a dark cloud is over me. Where tears just fall from my eyes and stain my cheeks. Days where it’s difficult to get out of bed, or extreme anxiety that someone I love (especially one of my children) are going to be badly hurt and we’ll lose another child.
It's not glamorous. The grief doesn't go away. Time hasn't healed my wounds. The grief still exists. It still hurts like hell. And in an odd way, some days it becomes a familiar feeling as if you're welcoming back an old friend and picking up the conversation where you last left off. Other days, it grabs you kicking and screaming.