I've been reading a book called Missing the Child You Love by H. Norman Wright. It's been good for me. I see some of the things I'm feeling in print and I realize maybe I'm not so strange after all. Of course, everyone grieves differently and at their own pace, but there are some similarities.
Apparently I am still in the first stages of grief, which is somewhat depressing. There's such a long way to go. I am still in denial. I can't believe he's no longer here. I just can't fully wrap my mind around the truth. There is still a huge part of me that hopes this is all a terrible nightmare that I will wake up from and wrap my arms around my little boy again. Sometimes when I look at his picture I think, "How can this be?" And, yes, there is anger.
I think I'm mostly frustrated by the questions. The majority of my life I have been a trusting Christian. Unwavering. Always relying that, "God works all things together for the good of those who love Him, who are called, according to His purpose." But as hard as I try, I absolutely cannot find the good in William's death. Sure, I know he no longer struggles. But he was cherished and happy. There's the contradiction again. One father in the book put it like this,
"I was bothered by seemingly contradictory emotions. How could I laugh when I was feeling so sad? How could I be resentful of what happened and yet accept it? How could I let go and still hang on? How could I believe and doubt in the same breath? How could I actually experience deep joy, and yet feel the unutterable pain of having lost?"
Mr. Wright says, "Grief is slow, and it needs be slow, even though most people probably want to rush it along. It will take longer than anyone has patience for."
He shows grief as a jagged pattern of peaks and valleys:
I found this chart very interesting, especially as we are approaching the 3 month mark and I find our grief much more intense than in the beginning.
I miss him so much. Life is continuing, as it must. I am trying to learn to continue with it, but I loathe the thought.