I've been staring at my computer for a while, thinking of the reasons why it has been over a month since my last post. Part of it is feeling bad for writing "downer" posts about being sad, but mostly it's got to do with dread.
If there was one word that could sum up what I've been feeling lately, it's dread. Dread for the day ahead, and wondering if I'll get through it without crying or yelling or thinking cynical thoughts. Dread over the possibility of being asked, "do you have any kids?" or being told, "you're young, there's still time," or "I know it will happen for you." I struggle with dreading the future, and all of the unknowns that lie ahead.
I dread writing this blog post, or really writing anything at all, because writing makes me think of John and thinking of John makes my chest ache.
The other day I told a friend that I was enjoying a long streak of what I call "good days." I said, "I think I'm being filled up to be poured out," and I was right.
I've learned to give in to the grief, to let it wash over me, shake me up and wring me out. I do my best to feel it and then let it go—not chew on it, like I'm often tempted to do. The dread is hard to shake, though. It's in the back of my mind, whispering worry! fear! hide! give up! It bottles itself up in my throat and becomes lodged there. I am so weary of the battle, but I find rest in knowing it has ultimately been won.
