A very important thing i have learned about grief these past few months are to be allowed to be sad. For people to not try and fix you or tell you it will be better.
Most friends i meet tell me that it will be ok or start talking about single guys they know, or how I should go on tinder. I want to scream to them that im still sad, that im still mourning my relationship, that im not ready. But some people only know how to comfort by fixing the ‘problem’ or by hearing your words having to tell you of your coming happiness.
I do think it will be ok, this is only heartbreak, it gets better, but right now its not. Right now this is not just a break up from any guy, this is my broken heart that cant believe i had to let go of someone I love. Its me trying to get back up where i have energy for more than lay on the bed and its me realizing im not where i want to be.
This is the first time in my life i have let grief feel as bad as it does, when i have allowed myself to be as sad as i am. I tend to shrug it off and get on but I read somewhere that breaking up with someone can feel like someone dies (Sandra wrote this achingly sad) and 5 years ago I would have laughed at that.
It does. Even if Oliver is still in my life WE have died. That is what I mourn. Us. Our dreams, our future, our hopes. W’s face when we hand him over and walk separate ways. My never ending nightmares and the fact that it feels like im falling. That we will never be more than friends than talk once in a while and that i will have to believe again.
I read the below text on Facebook and she puts it perfectly. Even if this is a much deeper sorrow the feeling at the point of sadness is the same.
‘I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.’