Tuesday 24 July 2012

Back to Baby Steps

With every ounce of strength, I focused on getting through the weekend of hell (two anniversaries back to back).  I knew the week leading up to those two dreadful days would be worse than the actual event, I prepared, I readied myself for the slide back into the deep dark pit.  But Saturday and Sunday passed, surrounded by friends, and I felt...ok!

And then I woke up Monday morning. And Reality Bit.

This is a constant theme of grief.  You focus on getting through the 'hard' days.  And then you do, you survive, and somehow it comes as a surprise.  YOU are still alive?!  And yet, your beloved has not returned.  You think 'I did it! see? I am strong! NOW surely you can return!! I've passed the test!'  But he or she does not walk through that door.  When you wake up, he's not there, lying beside you.

So here I am. Two days later.  9 months and 2 days into this journey and I'm back to baby steps.  And like a child, I'm screaming inside 'NOOO! I don't want to go back to this pit of darkness!! I was doing so well! I was starting to plan and dream again! I don't want to be this zombie again!'


But this is the nature of this journey. I keep thinking how similar grief is to running.  There are days when you hit your stride and feel as though you could run forever, the wind at your back, it's like you have wings - a force is gently pushing you from behind, lifting you off your feet and it's effortless.  Those days are joyful.  You find confidence in your abilities with every stride.  But inevitably there are those other days.  Days when your legs feel like lead.  Each step heavier than the one before.  The gentle hills seem like endless mountains, looming before you like Mt Everest.  So you cut these runs shorter.  You give yourself a break.

The runs that really catch you off guard are those good ones, when you unexpectedly encounter rough terrain from time to time.  You can be plodding along, quite happily enjoying the scenery, but when you look away for one moment, you suddenly find yourself stepping into a bog and your foot is sinking.  At these times it's important to move slowly, so as not to risk injury.

As runners, as athletes, we are so meticulous in caring for our bodies.  Why do we find it so hard to accept that we must care for our emotional selves as well?  I was chastising myself today for not being productive, for taking 10 steps back in my grief recovery, but as a runner, I would not think twice about stopping if something hurt.  Ok...I'd be disappointed, I'd find something else to do instead, but I would not berate myself!!  I guess it's hard to accept that this grief race is one that will never quite end.  My legs will get stronger, my stamina will increase, but I am bound to have days in which I encounter obstacles and difficult terrain, days when my body aches, and my lungs feel tight.  And on these days, I will have to slow my pace, take a breather, and carry on.




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