Does it ever stop hurting?

When we feel overwhelmed and consumed by the inconsolable pain of our wrong, we often wonder, will this be my life forever? Will the bread ever go away?

If the grievance has crashed into our life in a fury, we are knocked down, broken, and shattered, gasping for breath in a fog of shock, numbness, and confusion. The bread becomes implacable and consumes everything. The intensity and constancy of this amazes and frightens us and we feel that we will never be whole again.

In the early days of my own grievance, I was shocked at the fury of my pain, the agony I had to endure every minute. He knocked me down and I was terrified. I was terrified by the force of it. I was terrified of my frailty. I was terrified that this agony, this brokenness would be my life forever.

I went minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day… searching, wondering, wondering. When does it get better? How long does it last? How did you survive? Screaming, when will the pain go away?

I began to measure my struggle by my tears or lack of them and what happened each day. I only cried twice today. I haven’t cried for a day. When they reached two days, I celebrated. The tears lasted thirty minutes instead of two hours. In the midst of my tears and the shreds of my heart I began to look for moments of comfort and moments of hope. I searched for survival stories and gulped at the inspiration I found. I wanted anything that would bring a sliver of light into the darkness of my life. Day after day, the ease came in small increments and the pieces of my life, once shattered forever, began to come back together in moments of pleasure, joy, and happiness.

Those tears, those moments, those little increments became my bookmarks; the signs that helped me understand and notice a little better my grievance and my healing. I saw where I was in my day and in my life. I realized when my feelings came, how powerful they were and how long they lasted. I also learned that my grievance would never be a straight line from AB, done, recovered, and happy again. It became for me a forever evolutionary spiral That is part of who I am now.

If I am around the outside of the spiral, the pleasant moments of my life merge and more than the painful moments.

I keep the memory and presence of my son at the top of my day.

I take the time to nurture myself.

I spend time with the people who matter most to me.

I deliberately find something each day to appreciate and enjoy.

If I am moving towards the center of my spiral, the painful moments of my life merge and more than the pleasant moments:

I miss my son so much that it aches with a longing for which there is no relief.

I spend every moment wishing for the past, wishing the magic eraser would take it all away.

The flashbacks are constantly on repeat once again.

I can’t get out of bed and I want to curl up and die myself.

Depending on where I am in my spiral, these moments can be like waves gently lapping at the shore or waves hitting me against the ground. Fleeting like the wake of a passing ship or a storm that lasts for hours or days and I am crushed again at that moment. Sometimes I can see the storm in the distance building slowly. Other times it hits me like a bolt of lightning out of nowhere. I’ve gotten used to those waves. Acceptance always comes smoothly, and fortunately this happens less and less now.

As with my tears, my spiral and the ocean help me to know myself better. The spiral shows how softly or forcefully my grievance is reverberating into my life and how powerful it is in my life at any given moment. It tells me where I am and is part of who I am. I don’t have to get over my complaint, put it away or pack it up. I recognize the duality that will always remain. The pain and the ease. The rage and the calm. The better, the worse. The sad, the happy. The pain and the pleasure.

The loss of my son will shape and mold me for the rest of my life, my grief will spin and I will spiral in its unique rhythms forever.