The wound that doesn't heal
I knew when I started writing about caring that it was going to be hard. Although it only took up four months of my life, those months were arguably traumatic. I barely slept, my eating was terrible, and I was experiencing anticipatory grief. Together, those things along with the guilt I felt any time I thought I hadn’t done enough, were a recipe for inner turmoil.
After my friend had passed, I saw someone say that grief is something that you just grow around; it never heals, you just learn to live with it.
Writing this week has felt like picking at the healing wound, and re-uncovering the grief. This book though is not just something I want to write, it’s something I feel like I have to write. Society acknowledges death exists but doesn’t talk enough about it, I feel like it is my responsibility to contribute to the conversation.
Ultimately I know that this process is always going to be hard. I hope that as time goes on and get further through that it will feel a bit easier. Perhaps exposure will blunt my feelings a bit and allow the wound to heal a bit.
Right now the sun is shining, yellow roses bloom outside my window, and birds chirp in the bushes. It’s not all pain.
K xx