Don’t put a timeline on my grief.
In the past thirty-nine weeks, I’ve lost my son, gave birth, moved in a new house, and gotten out of a relationship. Those are three, big life changes in nine short months. I have learned how to live with the biggest hole in my heart. There’s literally been days I’ve had to crawl in the shower to get the tear stains off my cheeks. I’ve experienced every single emotion, sometimes all in one second. The weeks have both dragged on and went entirely too fast. I’m exhausted and sick. Most days I get so frustrated with myself that all I can do is sleep. Depression and anxiety are in constant battle with each other, every second with grief being their puppet master. There’s time I just want to rip my skin off so I can have some type of emotional break.
Yes, I still cry. Every day tears run down my face. That’s because every, single day I’m missing out on something Jensen would be doing. When I am vulnerable in front of you, it’s not a cry for attention. It’s letting you know I need you here with me and I’m comfortable with you seeing me at my weakest. This isn’t the time to kick me while I’m down. It’s when you’re supposed to lift me up. Tell me some way Jensen has positively effected your life and if he honestly hasn’t, just say his name. Remind me why I’ve come this far because it really isn’t for me. It’s for the little boy who can’t take these steps in life.
Thank you Gina, Everett’s mom, for this beautiful picture and reminding me to keep going on the worst days.
Just because the year changed to 2017 at the stroke of midnight on New Years Eve doesn’t mean my 2016 was magically erased. I am still at battle with all those things. The year change is nothing but a switch of a few numbers and the official passing of times. There wasn’t a person who came to my home and told my body to forget everything that’s happened. Or say, well it’s the new year and enough time has passed for you to be healed. It’s such a ridiculous notion.
Don’t put a timeline on my grief.
Nine months is such a relatively short amount of time in the span of life. And you know what? If I’m still crying every day at age ninety, I have every right. My innocent child died. It is the saddest tragedy that anyone could through. It doesn’t help when people make you feel bad for how you’re grieving. There shouldn’t be a set time where you’re just supposed to act like nothing ever happened. I’m sorry, but if you feel that way I’m not the person that should be involved in your life. There is no reason I should be apologetic for my grief. I will remember Jensen for as long as I live. In the time he’s been gone, I’ve said his name multiple times a day. This doesn’t mean I’m stuck in society’s timeline of grief, it means I love my son and that’s the way I show it. There will never a day where I’m embarrassed of him or will stop loving him. It sounds like a ridiculous to say, but when is a person is pushed to move on they’ll snap back.
I’ve lived more in the past thirty-nine weeks than a lot of people. You can say I’m damaged, but I’d tell you I’m healing. Grief has no timeline. There’s no set steps that a person has to go through. By limiting a person to the five steps in a certain amount of time only makes them feel like they’re not grieving right. I and so many other people are uncomfortable with how life has treated them. Of course I want to be happy. I should be happy with Jensen who’s testing his limits and giving me a ornery little smile. But I can’t bring him back to have that. There’s so much love in me for him that it pours out and sometimes my brain doesn’t know how to process it. It wants to give it all to him, but he’s not physically here. That is so hard on my motherly instincts.
If you can imagine just one whole day knowing your child is not alive and will never come back, you would understand. You wouldn’t want to put a timeline on my grief. Crying every day wouldn’t be weird. Still grieving at nine months wouldn’t be a huge deal. This life, although very uncomfortable, would make a little sense to you.
So please, don’t put a timeline on my grief.