There is no water, only my bed and the sunshine that’s calling most people to rise and shine and step forward into the day, but I can feel myself sinking.
Sinking.
Sinking.
Down. Down. Down.
Motivation lost. Energy drained. I feel heavy— too heavy to lift from this spot, too heavy to rise, too heavy to do anything.
It’s an invisible weight that I carry, grief, but it’s the largest burden and ache I’ve ever known.
I’m mad at myself for feeling the way I do, emotional and exhausted. I’m embarrassed by the laziness, the stagnancy that’s found me. I’m ashamed of the magnetic force pulling me to the darkness and the hopelessness—into the heartbreak.
As I lay here wondering what is wrong with me, why I can’t move or find my breath as easily as I used to, I realize the date. It all starts to make sense.
It’s almost my mother’s death anniversary. I’m nearing the date of her death and entering the week I refer to in my mind as “the end”— those delicate days of goodbyes and watching someone you love slip into eternity.
Days I’ve never fully recovered from.
Days that changed me.
Days that bring me to my knees, or stuck in bed, in overwhelming and powerful grief.
During this week, if you wonder where I am, I’m lost in grief. I’m paralyzed by the impact of these days, only years earlier. I’m forever changed by the things I witnessed and the realities I was left with. I’m stuck back in time, reliving it all, wishing I could change the outcome, wondering why my mother had to leave so soon.
And I might be here for a while, in this sinking, in this heaviness, in this grief. I never know how long these anniversaries will leave me stuck, I’m simply thankful that eventually I recover. I will find hope and light and energy again, though never losing the weight of grief completely.
For now, I’m sinking.
Down. Down. Down.
Into the grief.
Into the magnitude of these dates and days.
Into the ache of my mother’s death.
