A New Year

The calendar has finally turned and we are in January 2020. I have to admit that I crawled my way through the final days of December. Unlike prior years, I felt relief that the heavy dates of December had passed and a new year was upon us. The calendar stretches out ahead of me free of marked dates that carry tremendous weight.

I have entered my second year of grieving Oliver. I forgot how much the second year hurts. It's deeper. Darker. The thawing I have referenced before continues and the sores are exposed. For some reason, wound analogies speak to me when I am trying to define my grief. My sore is scabbed over, still rough and swollen. It bleeds when touched and requires gentleness.

I have been struggling with a bout of depression.  I hesitate to even type the words because there is such stigma attached to depression. Yet I value honesty and authenticity. In the past, my emotions felt too big to manage. Now they feel too distant and hidden to access. I find this much more unsettling. I am working with a therapist and thankfully I have dear friends who avail themselves to me when I need support. Last week I sent out the alert that I needed estrogen rich friends to surround me. The next day I found myself plopped down on a couch sipping coffee and crying with some amazing women. I don't think communal weeping is done enough. It's cathartic and bonding. As is the comfort found in holding a hot beverage.

I feel weak. Fragile. Slow. The simple tasks of daily life can feel overwhelming. Often shame and guilt creep in to weaken me even more. I am reframing things. I try to avoid saying "all I did was..." and instead say today "I was able to...". I have begun my second semester of graduate school slowly working toward my MSW. Along with the weight of grief, I know I also carry the weight of experience, compassion, and empathy. And I have my beautiful children to thank for that.