Me and Grief

I’ve been avoiding updating this blog for a while. Just the thought of it overwhelmed me with guilt. I wasn’t sure why. But I am now.

Let me back up a bit. When I moved out here I saw it as an act of closure; a conscious decision to move on and live life. But we all know better than that, don’t we? Nothing is that simple. Frankly, I underestimated something very important… my very needy partnership with grief. That bastard is a family member. There for life. I think I knew that, but it wasn’t until this very moment that I realized how comfortable I was with grief. How’s that for a contradictory statement. Me and grief, we had a rhythm and routine. Grief defined me and my days. People knew me as the girl with grief.  And I see now that moving was just as much a decision to move on as it was an attempt to take back some power.  I’ve given myself quite the task. So, four months of lazy naiveté later, here I am. Ready to admit that not only is relying on the world around me to tell me who I am is a fools errand, but also that doing that is not who I am. It’s definitely not the person Pam raised.

So, with that, I apologize for the length of time since my last update. I’ve been dealing with some shit. 

I’m sure you’re tired of reading, so I’ll make this short with the promise of more details next time.

From what I understand they have made some serious headway with unpacking thanks to all of the visitors. Dad may even be able to fit both cars into the garage. Mom is going to therapy (PT/OT/speech) a few times a week and continues to confirm her strong dislike for her PT…again.  We’ve discussed the possibility that she might learn to love him, but so far it’s looking questionable.  All in all, they’re doing well. Still settling in. The state I think they’ll remain in, to be honest because that’s who they are – settling in, never settling for.