You know when it is dark, and you can't see anything, you tend to automatically reach out your hands to try and feel for any bad things that might be coming, that might be about to hit you in the face? Your steps are kind of jittery, juddering, shakily feeling forward to avoid tripping. You are kind of fearful, worried, afraid of the unknown.
I feel like grief is kind of like that. Whatever you are grieving, sometimes it is not someone you know passing away, sometimes it is losing a friendship, losing a sense of groundedness or connection, losing a part of yourself that you thought would be there forever. In your grief, you are in the dark. This is not some logical progression, a step-by-step instruction list that you can follow to get from A to B. This is just the unknown, and you are sitting right in the middle of it.
And this darkness is so complete that sometimes you're not even sure if you are moving forward, or just going around in circles, or somehow, hopefully not, going backward.
Grief is a lesson in patience, one that I never feel ready or capable of learning. I am often feeling like I am fine, like I am moving out of it, like I am coping well, and then my foot will catch on something and suddenly I am completely unsure of myself again, lost back in the darkness, fumbling for the light.
There is not much else to say here, no deep wisdom to impart, just a reminder to you (to myself) to be gentle. To commit yourself to any simple thing you can do - even if it's just getting up to get a glass of water. Feel the glass under your fingers, listen to the water as it enters the cup, and really feel the water as you drink it. It may sound silly, but even just experiencing that much can draw you back, can restore a little bit of confidence to you.
All my love to those who read.