Tuesday, 17 January 2012
Other times when I feel like being strong is just too tough, I consider ending it all. To spell it out, I think about taking my own life (wow, that is really hard to write). I think about departing either by my own hand or walking in front of a Mack truck, disregarding thoughts on how badly I would hurt everyone who loves me. Sometimes, I just want the pain in my heart to end. When I look at Isla's box and remember her meagre possessions (her hat, her necklace, her blanket and a card with her footprints and hand prints), it seems too much to bear for the rest of my life. With this, I go to an ink black place and contemplate my little world without me. Fortunately, I now have some hope in my heart and dismiss that course of action.
When these options fail to satisfy, I do the only other thing I can do instead of being strong - I fall apart. I cry for hours on end for several days in a row. The tears I always think have been fully wrung out of me over the last 20 months seem to be in endless supply. I don't try to stop them anymore. Sometimes you just need to weep and feel the depth of your despair. And there's nothing wrong with that. Losing a loved one changes you and you can never be the same again. And that is mournful. I think one thing I'd like to shout from the rooftops is that the pain never stops. It's there in the shade of a sunny smile and at night after a great day. And while the bright days grow more numerous between the the dark ones, they never fully go away. To be honest, I don't think I could be strong without taking the opportunities to just go to pieces.