For some inexplicable reason, I am feeling pretty good, which is to say pretty neutral, this week.
I'm guessing that I have been on such overload that my psyche is protecting itself by taking a break.
I have absorbed a lot of sad news from elsewhere this week, and we are in the midst of family drama and sadness ourselves, so perhaps my frayed neurons have simply closed up shop for a bit.
I did almost start to cry in a class yesterday in which we are discussing issues pertaining to bodily resurrection. I managed to deflect most of my pain by talking about examples from the lives of other people rather than my own.
At some point I heard myself say that I have no beliefs about life after death right now. Later, trying to dissect what I had said, it seemed that the reasoning was obvious: It matters not in the least to me. All that matters is that my son is not here with me now. I know that other people find comfort in various beliefs about what is next; some (although I'm not sure who that would be) even find comfort in the convoluted framework posited by the Presbyterian Confessions. I don't. I give my classmates and professor credit, though, for their silence in the face of experience.
Now that I've written it down, it's hard to believe that not crying plus null belief constitutes a good week. I guess from a feeling perspective it makes sense; I am breathing, and much of the time I think I have forgotten to do that.
I suppose that this momentary sense of breathing in neutral means rough terrain lies ahead.
I'm guessing that I have been on such overload that my psyche is protecting itself by taking a break.
I have absorbed a lot of sad news from elsewhere this week, and we are in the midst of family drama and sadness ourselves, so perhaps my frayed neurons have simply closed up shop for a bit.
I did almost start to cry in a class yesterday in which we are discussing issues pertaining to bodily resurrection. I managed to deflect most of my pain by talking about examples from the lives of other people rather than my own.
At some point I heard myself say that I have no beliefs about life after death right now. Later, trying to dissect what I had said, it seemed that the reasoning was obvious: It matters not in the least to me. All that matters is that my son is not here with me now. I know that other people find comfort in various beliefs about what is next; some (although I'm not sure who that would be) even find comfort in the convoluted framework posited by the Presbyterian Confessions. I don't. I give my classmates and professor credit, though, for their silence in the face of experience.
Now that I've written it down, it's hard to believe that not crying plus null belief constitutes a good week. I guess from a feeling perspective it makes sense; I am breathing, and much of the time I think I have forgotten to do that.
I suppose that this momentary sense of breathing in neutral means rough terrain lies ahead.
6 comments:
Or is it possible that you're just learning to breathe again in the face of all you've endured and experienced?
Your good is good. I think there is a difference between comfort and hope. I hope in the resurrection, but I found no personal comfort in the throes of grief in that hope.
The only thing you can really do is not let the "neutral" times be spoiled by the sure knowledge that rough terrain lies ahead. It always does...
I love your honesty. I intended, originally, that my blog would be my place to report "from the front lines" of grief - to record what I was feeling at any moment, in part as therapy for me. On some days, it has become so dark that I hesitate to tell it as it is now; I worry about bringing others down. Yet, that is not good therapy for me. Your honesty is taking me back to my original intention. Thank you for that.
Sometimes there is rest and refreshment. Sometimes, we are in dark and rough terrain. Whatever it is, it just IS. Being honest allows others to come alongside, and alleviates the loneliness.
Thank you for that, too. God bless you.
I love the neutral days. They are a sheltering spot in an otherwise stormy landscape. I've learned to take the rest because it's only a matter of time before who-knows-what triggers the floods of grief again.
For me, the resurrection is my only hope of seeing my son again, and therefore the one and only thing left that I can hang on to. I wish there were more comfort on this side of eternity, but I haven't found it yet. Still looking and praying, though.
Hugs to you and true sympathy for the heartwrenching loss of your precious, irreplaceable son. God be with you and comfort your heart.
I am humbled, truly humbled, by the layers upon layers of what you are enduring. Your honesty here is so helpful to so many.
Prayers for both your neutral days and rough ones.
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