I dropped my client work for the three months after Corey leapt from her body, mainly because I couldn't do anything but cry all day anyway. I still needed to write, though, and created this blog a few weeks after The Event, so I could begin to let some of the intensity eek out in a way that might help me and wouldn't hurt anyone else.
Bit by bit, day by day, I have worked my way through mountains of grief and oceans of tears. I can hardly believe that the body is capable of creating so many tears, honestly. And somehow in late November I walked through a wall of junky stuff that seemed to enshroud me and keep me falling constantly into deep sadness again. I came to a place that had a clear sense of well-being. At last.
Odd how the insensitivity of a client last night--who chided me in crass tones for how long it has taken to get her memoir into book form, "I mean, come ON!" she yelled--could threaten to bring me back down.
It is excruciating work to track each inner reaction that leads to the feeling of hopelessness. As best as I have tracked it, it seems to go like this:
- I'm okay, I'm getting along, I have these ways of forcing my thoughts into the bright side whenever they try to step sideways near the Cliff of Despair
- Something from the outside triggers my sense of injustice
- The commonplace injustice triggers my anger over losing Corey--because there is nothing--absolutely nothing-- as unfair as losing your child
- I begin missing Corey and feeling alone
- Once I begin missing Corey and feeling alone, I am standing on the Cliff of Despair with one foot in the air about to go down.
So it takes a lot of work inside to notice these chain reactions and make a conscious decision not to let all of your thoughts ride the hot lava river of anger and injustice. I like how my dog does it: shake, shudder, shake, smile, and keep on walking.