What color was it before? Every day is like a memory test. Before it happened, what did I feel like? Was I carrying this weight in my chest? Like trying to remember a friends hair style before she got it cut- the everyday is lost to me. I cannot hold it in my mind. I grasp at moments thinking, “is this how I felt before? Was it lighter than this?”
I cannot now remember what “normal” is. Was grief sitting in me, occupying me? I’m tempted to say “distorting me”, but I cannot remember what un-distorted felt like. Was I? Were things easy, at least sometimes? Now I must wring my heart out- like a desperate woman in a desert, I thirst for joy, I push for a few drops to drip out again. What re-fills me?
In order to return to normal, I must remember what normal was. What defined it? Did I actually feel lighter than I do now? It is excruciating to think of this as my highest expectation of normalcy. The heaviness that sits on me, I only know it to be there when I feel genuine happiness make a surprising, flooding return- and I can tell you when, the exact moment: when someone inquires about my cat. Laughable! This fluffy, fat, silly ball of fur who cuddles with me and seems to like me without any opinion on my current state. Unfailingly, when someone brings her up, they immediately comment that I look happier, lighter, more present. It’s a rope thrown to me in this tossing sea- maybe I did once feel that way about normal, little things. Perhaps I didn’t have to try that hard to laugh or be in a room with people, and maybe I can get back there.
I just don’t know what to expect. But I don’t want to feel this pain any more.