I've been reading (or, more accurately, re-reading) books about grief and loss lately. These include Wild by Cheryl Strayed, Ghost Rider by Neil Peart, The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, and Grace and Grit by Ken Wilber. That last is the only one I haven't finished; it hits far too close to home, and I have to read it in tiny, tiny sips to keep from being overwhelmed.
The one of these that hits me squarely on is The Year of Magical Thinking. Joan Didion's year was the year after her husband's death; mine has been the past year, holding tenaciously onto every scrap of hope for Jay, having my head pounded into the pavement every time that hope turns out to be misplaced.
Look, I know that I joined my life to that of a dead man. This is not a surprise. But as they say, there's a difference between knowing the path and walking the path. Knowing intellectually what was going to happen is a very different thing to being hit in the heart over and over and over again.
I love this man beyond reason, as it should be. And when he is gone, whenever that future should occur, I will grieve for a very long time, then slowly pick up my life and move on. I will survive, because that's what I do.
But holy fuck does the now suck.
I discovered quite by accident a number of years ago that I'm good at grief. At a time when I truly thought I wasn't good at anything, it was a kind of pointed gift to find that I was good at something.
My dreams these past few nights have been full of loss and promise, of pain and of love, of frustration and of triumph. My subconscious is clearly trying to prepare me for whatever future lies ahead, good, bad, wonderful, awful - whatever.
Right now, I'm just scared, angry, and full of love.