Letting Go ...
Dec. 4th, 2009 11:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
texchanI think it is impossible to let go. To really and truly lose something or someone you love and be all right with it. To find peace and feel the sting of grief leave your life. Because it just fucking hurts. At first, it hurts every day. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day. It almost feels like something big and strange and shadowy has moved in and swallowed your life. But that passes. It does, even though you don't think it will. It's like you hope it will pass, but when you're there -- in the middle of it all -- you can't really bring yourself to believe it will actually pass you by and leave you in peace. Because the hurt is all you have. Because the hurt eclipses your good, happy memories. Because the hurt feels like the last thing you have left of what you lost, and you cling to it. You don't want to admit that's what you're doing, but it is. Later -- when you can see the memories and the good times again -- you'll realize that's true. But not at first.
And things get better. Slowly. You don't think about it every day. And then, you don't think about it even every other day. And your life adjusts and changes. And eventually you can remember your lost one without crying. You can even think of them without feeling sad. This is a good thing, and you think it means you're stronger ... that, finally, you've healed.
But, really, I don't think that pain ever goes away. It's always there, right under the surface -- lurking, like some great, shadowy beast that can eat away at the facade you show the world. And there's no telling what might bring it out again. Like for me today ... something as simple as cleaning out the garage. And finding an old box of dog toys -- collecting dust and unused. Just sitting in the garage, taking up space, really. And my dad tells me: "You should throw those out." And I know I can't do it. My eyes fill with tears and I run from the garage ... only to lock myself in the office and cry like my heart is breaking. Because it is, somehow. It shouldn't be, but it is. I can feel it.
It really shouldn't hurt this much. Not any more. Not after two years have passed.
*sigh*
And things get better. Slowly. You don't think about it every day. And then, you don't think about it even every other day. And your life adjusts and changes. And eventually you can remember your lost one without crying. You can even think of them without feeling sad. This is a good thing, and you think it means you're stronger ... that, finally, you've healed.
But, really, I don't think that pain ever goes away. It's always there, right under the surface -- lurking, like some great, shadowy beast that can eat away at the facade you show the world. And there's no telling what might bring it out again. Like for me today ... something as simple as cleaning out the garage. And finding an old box of dog toys -- collecting dust and unused. Just sitting in the garage, taking up space, really. And my dad tells me: "You should throw those out." And I know I can't do it. My eyes fill with tears and I run from the garage ... only to lock myself in the office and cry like my heart is breaking. Because it is, somehow. It shouldn't be, but it is. I can feel it.
It really shouldn't hurt this much. Not any more. Not after two years have passed.
*sigh*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-06 04:52 pm (UTC)You are so right. It's impossible to replace a companion like that. Not that I don't love my current dog. I do love her. But it's just ... different.