"What have you been doing to help yourself?" she asked over breakfast, "Are you taking medication or talking to anyone?"
And I'm not. Sometimes I forget that it has only been four months, even though I remember every single day. It feels so much longer because the grieving process began well before she actually passed.
I've been through so much, I have to remember it's alright that every day is a rollercoaster. My emotional state is raw and prickly; so fragile, surrounding myself with a wannabe tough protective armor.
It's not that I'm trying to have a stiff upper lip. There is a despair that surrounds me, palpable at times, tainting and painting everything.
There seems no point (for me), in wallowing. It doesn't change a thing. She isn't coming back and the images and experiences that shaped this past year are indelible.
It becomes a conscious effort and choice, to find the happy and joy in my everyday life. It makes a difference for me to try to use my camera to draw myself out of myself; to allow myself to blow off responsibility, even if it's for the entire day, because I'm trying so desperately to mend.
I don't expect a cathartic awakening, an aha moment or a definitive time that marks better times.
All I have is now.
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