I have 2 options when asked this question.
Option One: I can put on the show. Put the wall up. Smile and give the obligatory, "I'm fine." Then get out of Dodge.
Option Two: I can break down, sobbing, and talk about how I feel like such a failure and a fraud. How it's so hard to hear people tell me how strong I am or how great I'm doing or how much they admire how I've held fast while I just want to scream, "It's all an illusion. I'm none of those things. I'm just good at pretending." I can lament the fact that I am controlled by fear in everything I do now. There's no area of my life it doesn't touch. I could tell about how grief has changed me. How I feel it to my very core. It's nearly impossible to live with it. It's more impossible to live without it.
I usually opt for number one.
People expect me to be joyful. They expect that the hope that lives within me is enough to extinguish the grief.
But it's not.
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| "Sorrow is knowledge; those that know the most must mourn the deepest." Lord Byron |
The grief remains. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the hope. I cling to it. But I'm still living this life without my little boy. I will miss him as long as God gives me breath. Every moment of every day. He is a part of me. That's how God made me. So I carry the sorrow, just as I carry the love.
