Grieving my grief...<3

Little by little we let go of loss...but never of love.

As I sat there in what had become my familiar, safe, sofa, in my therapist's room, the penny dropped. I had reached a point of knowing I had to grieve my grief. No longer stay in it, but somehow let it go. Early on in my grief journey, I remember my psychologist saying to me, "You are someone that might really struggle to deal with your grief if you're going to put a task list and timeline to it all. You need to find purpose in your grief, learn to be okay with the ebbs and flows, otherwise it may all overcome you." I didn't quite understand what she meant. I had an idea of what grief may look like, but boy was I naïve. There was no order to it. No check boxes. No timeline. Just trying to survive each emotional wave as it came. One hour I was fine, and the next I was trying to breathe through the overwhelming sadness. Holding it together as much as I could at work, and then falling to my knees in the shower at the end of the day, overshadowed with the emptiness that filled the air at home. Crying to myself in bed for what felt like months on end. Not sleeping at all as the heartache was so intense. How was I to find purpose in this chaos that was now my life.

I remember during the first year, it was a series of constant "firsts".

• 12th December - our first wedding anniversary without him

• 25th December - my first Christmas without him

• 31st December - my first New Years without him

• 14th February - my first Valentine's Day without him

• 8th August - my first birthday without him

• 9th November - his first birthday without him

...and every other first in between. My first night in bed without him. My first meal without him. My first trip to church without him. My first family holiday without him. It was like a part of me was missing and nothing quite fitted like it used to. And it wouldn't, because "...a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and they shall become one flesh." - Genesis 2:24. We had become one. When the one part of that whole is ripped away, it feels like torture. I often had a picture in my mind of two hearts being ripped apart slowly from one another, one small tendon at a time, as I slowly had to learn to let go of Bernard. That picture didn't come close to describing the pain I was feeling emotionally and physically. I longed for him, so much. I didn't want to let go, but I had no choice.

As each first milestone hit, it felt like I was slowly losing Bernard more and more over time. He felt further and further away from me. Slipping through my hands and that scared me so much. Hours turned into days, days into months - and I found myself slowly losing track of time. As the time rolled on, I found that I wasn't falling apart every single day, I wasn't crying every night and I started to feel guilty about that. My grief seemed to be lessening and slipping away from me. I wanted to go back to that part of immense pain, immense grief - because that seemed to be the last link I had to Bernard. Where I felt the closest to him between our parallel worlds. I wanted the tears, I wanted the heartache, just to be near him again. But staying in a place of immense grief day in and day out would slowly kill me, and as much as it hurt, I knew I had to start letting go somehow. Grieve my grief, so that I could heal for myself and eventually start to thrive again, not just survive.

And so slowly I had to accept that I needed to let go of my grief. Even if I felt like it was the last link connecting me back to my husband. It wasn't been easy, I can tell you that. Often I just wanted to give up and go back to what I knew. Where I was comfortable, what linked me back to love - even though it was the most painful experience of my life. But somehow, without even knowing it, I found myself accepting that I can grieve my grief without losing Bernard. I can let go of the pain, yet still hold onto the love and memories we shared. That it's okay to let go of the sadness, and remember the happiness. And so I felt a sense of relief in a way. That I could take off the backpack I was carrying around with me of fear, of sadness, of pain, and step forward into a new life of hope without losing my connection to Bernard.

It's beautiful how God's word stands true. He promises that He will comfort us through suffering, and that there will be a time to dance and be happy again. That we can mourn, but knowing that there will be hope again on the mountain top. "To all who mourn in Israel, He will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the Lord has planted for His own glory." - Isiah 61:3. There is always hope when you put your trust and faith in Jesus.

Love always, Melissa

xxx