Grief and Time

Today I spoke with a friend of mine who experienced the loss of his wife around the same time that I lost Brian.  We have spoken often of our losses and our grief.  A year ago at this time, neither of us understood how we could possible survive, but we have.  Life goes on, we remember how to laugh, we remember how to enjoy things, we accept new good things into our lives.  But that doesn't mean that one ever moves on from their loss.  You don't.  Time smooths the ragged edges, new experiences bring satisfaction, new friendship and relationships bring joy; but the loss is always there and it always will be.  It changes from a public thing to a private thing. 

In early grief the pain is always there and impossible to hide.  It is on our faces and in our voices.  Strangers may not understand it, but they see it.  As time goes on, it isn't there every moment of every day.  Smiles and laughter return.  Eventually, others no longer see the grief, and they lose tolerance for it.  At that point, the grieving and loss become a very private matter.  It doesn't cast a shadow over every moment like it once did, but it can rear its ugly head without warning, and even with the passing of time it can be intense and cruel.

I know that life has a lot to offer me, and I am open to receiving it.  I want love, laughter, companionship and all the wonderful things that come along with them. I love that I am able to experience happiness again!  But there are still moments when the pain of Brian's death is unbearable.  There are still moments when, even if I am surrounded by friends, I am overwhelmed with loneliness.

I don't know who, if anyone, reads these posts.  It doesn't matter, because I write them for myself.  If you are reading, try to remember that time does not end the pain of loss.  That pain never goes away.  It is always there, sometimes buried deep and sometimes right under the surface.  Try to be patient with others when they seem inexplicably saddened. 

I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with others who, like me, are also fighting to understand their relationship with loss.  I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with those who are, so far, unfamiliar with the sort of loss that I have experienced.  I need to remember that what might feel like insensitivity isn't; it's just the impossibility of understanding how profound loss can be.  I wish that I was still incapable of understanding that.