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She didn’t know if all the people who somehow managed to perform good grief, people like her mother, were still shredded on the inside. She didn’t know if they were still consumed with emptiness and longing for the way things used to be, or if they had all somehow filled in the hole left in their heart with friends and partners and community activism and social clubs. Maybe everyone is miserable all the time, and you’re just the only one who’s shit at hiding it.
Black heart, black soul, like a stain that ought to be washed away.
We all walk beneath the same moon, and grief is eternal.
“Grief is the wound love leaves on our heart,”
“The strength of that ache is the tenacity of love, and it never fades.”
“What does happen, is that your heart will heal around it. Yes? It’s not something that ever goes away, and like any bruise, to poke it will ache. But your heart will grow around it, protecting it, and it simply becomes a part of you. Don’t ever expect that ache to go away, little one. But stop considering it a negative thing. Grief is a gift. Do you understand?”
Depression was that little lizard voice at the back of her consciousness that was always quick to cut her down and remind her of her shortcomings.
There were many things that were not her strength, but that didn’t mean she ought not attempt them. Perfection was, after all, she reminded herself, unattainable.
You fill your days with other things, you give your heart to new people and hope they’ll take care of it.
