Eleventh Hour

We count the days, weeks, months and years. We don't mean to, but it has become a part of our DNA. Eleven months, just another day to most but we who grieve. We look back not because we want to but because our hearts are drawn in that direction. We see the day before, the day after, the day itself. Heart-ache is not a beat away for it has never left. Do we hurt worse on this day then we did yesterday? Yes and no for we are in pain everyday. Yes, because it is a mile stone that says they have been gone so long, so short and the year mark is coming too close. It has been hard enough to reach this place it will be harder still as that fatal day looms. We wonder if we should do something, will we regret not doing anything. We whip ourselves up into a vortex of indecision, not sure what to do. I honor you as I do everyday, Tim. I write.

We look back and see a landscape of such total destruction that even a direct hit from a nuclear bomb could not have done more damage. We see the gauntlet of emotions that have torn us asunder and we know it is not over yet, it may never be over, just different. I don't feel today what I felt eleven months ago for my emotions have evolved and separated into different paths. We are not the same people we once were and grieve that loss too. Many have left, we grieved them and let them go. We can't hold onto those who do not wish to be there with us. They have made their choices as we must do. We can only accept and step away. Some will come back, some will not. We have stopped being who others think we should be so we can learn who we now are.

There are different types, lengths and depths of grief. Those who do not grieve think they are all the same and the griever should be over it, moving on because it is not healthy to do otherwise. Someday, they may understand different. Whoever puts a time limit on grief has not been to the depths. That alone is something they should rejoice in. Three months into our grief we may have people who almost demand we make a choice: Get over it or lose them is what it comes down to. It is sad that they do not realize that if we could, we would, if we had the choice we would not be there in the first place. So we either put on a false front, hide our sorrow and suffer more, or we watch them walk away. We should not have to hide it or be forced into such a dilemma. Eleven months brings out others bitterness. They want the old you back and think you have the power to do that. Sometimes, the demands on my soul are crushing. That person is gone.

The path of destruction is not done with us, it may never be. That which we lost is sometimes more than we can bear. Everyday we have to relearn something else or new in our lives. Some call it selfishness that we are concentrating mostly on trying to live this. To find a place where we belong. We are drawn more to those who understand us than those who make so many demands on us. Is it any wonder? It should not be surprising to others that we prefer to be around those with kinder hearts, more open minds, deeper understanding. I think that would be obvious, but it isn't. I think that it would be obvious that the holidays, of all times, wreck us, it is not. It leaves us with doing what we have to do to avoid more hurt. Our decisions are not easy ones and not always happy ones. Life has hit us with the worst, these are the fringe benefits.

I see the emotional mess that is me. I accept it. I know that some of this will eventually change and some will not, some already has. We cannot force our grief out our pores as though it were sweat. If we put on a mask for others, we only hurt ourselves in denying our grief. In eleven months I have learned that there is no right way or wrong way in this new way of life. We have gone though fire and had so much happen and much that will still happen. Are we stronger for this? I don't think that word applies. We are different because of this. Are we survivors? We are surviving, sometimes by a thread, sometimes by a lifeline. In this eleventh hour, I dread that one year mark. One year does not mean I should be over this, it means the last time I hugged my son was a year ago.