On Grieving

Photo credit: http://www.terrytheweaver.com/

“We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it,

than any other person can be.” ̴ Jane Austen

When I first lived overseas, I had many dreams though I would have had a hard time to articulate them one by one if anyone happened to ask. However, I never imagined twenty years to look back upon so much discord, drama, fear and coercion [how sad]. That’s what has made recovery challenging. The worst part is I blocked out the pain during those years rather than allowing myself to grieve.

Grieving is a strange process, because it cannot be achieved by proxy. No one can do it for you and rarely will you find someone in real time that shows deep concern to accompany you through it. Maybe that’s asking too much from life. No. Grieving needs to be done alone and since I have lived in function of others, it never made it to the top of the priority list. I shared a little bit about this to someone over the phone today, but I couldn’t be sure how it was being received; whether with empathy or indifference-pretending-to-be compassion. We have had an ambiguous kind of friendship which in the end cannot be considered friendship at all. I have felt vibrations saying to the effect: “Keep it short, I have lots to do…”

[I’m typing this out as DD is in the bedroom sleeping] Anyway, I have been making progress and as a result have been feeling stronger. Today DD and I went biking at the metropolitan park. We’ve gone a few times before, but today I can say I enjoyed it. It’s not that the other outings were horrible or anything, but when you’re under the effects of despair and anxiety the vitality is missing. When you’re down, each event seems to be a test of endurance. You push yourself, so instead of building memories, you’re on survival mode. It could be sunny, but its default gray inside. It’s an awful way to live, because life already feels foreshortened as it is.

I confess my motivation for going biking [in prior occasions] was based on getting my daughter out of the house, so she wouldn’t be bored -- so I wouldn’t feel guilt-ridden -- yet secretly I couldn’t wait for the ordeal to be over even before it started. Each part of it was equivalent to climbing a mountain while loathing every step. Does that make sense? It’s good to be experiencing recovery.


̴ Reflector