Well, not really. I went to talk to a counselor today in Enid, to help me move on, and understand some of what I'm feeling and why. She wants me to name my grief--to detach myself from the grief I'm feeling, and make it separate from me--but it's not as easy as I thought it would be.
As a writer, I love to bestow names onto my characters, but I just can't seem to get this one right. Right now, it seems so big, and so daunting that a human name doesn't seem to fit. Nothing sounds ominous enough. When I think of a name, men's names scroll through my mind, so I've narrowed it down to at least a gender.When I think about times of sorrow in my life, it is almost always associated with men. My absent father, my grandfather, the death of my father, my ex-husband, and now the man I love. Men hurt me, and so my grief will be male.
That said, I feel like my grief runs so deep, and is so much a part of me that it doesn't want a name. It wants to sit and fester, and lie comfortably deep within me, like a monster hiding in the shadows. Everyone told me to let go of my anger, and when I did, that let in such an overwhelming pain that I could barely stand it. I'm afraid of what emotion will replace the grief.
This afternoon and evening, I've felt fairly numb. I don't feel like myself anymore, just someone that's going through the motions of daily life. Trying to get through the day and somewhat resemble the mother and friend I used to be before I had this huge fucking hole in my chest.
Maybe I'll think of a name tomorrow.
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