An Invitation

To the grief.
The pain.
The suffering.

Invite it in.
It’s not going anywhere until…

Dear sadness,

Why are you here?
What do you need me to know?
To feel?
To do?

I’ll sit with you.
I’ll be with you.
I acknowledge you.
I see you.
I am holding you.
I won’t ignore you.
I won’t judge you.
I won’t pretend you’re not here.
I won’t push you away.
I won’t shove you down.

I love you.

I feel you.
My stomach, it aches–like it really aches.
Is that where you are?
Where you’re sitting?

I’m feeling the pain, the sadness, the loss(es).
Collateral damage.
Always, I’m told.
I didn’t know until it happened to me.
I’m glad it’s not just me.

I’m dealing with my shit.
Sometimes screaming.
Sometimes crying.
Sometimes (still) blaming.
Sometimes throwing something HARD.
Or forcing.
yes…POUNDING something just feels good.

When something isn’t working, doing it harder doesn’t help.

…until it does.

I know this pain means something, and it must have importance-
Why else would it demand to be heard?
Seen?
Felt?
It must be important.

But I can’t stay in the suffering.
I want to feel good.
I want joy and laughter.
That’s who I am.
I love to laugh.
Give me a reason to laugh.

I do laugh. I do feel joy.

And still…I want him back.
That’s the truth.
He’s not here anymore; I KNOW THAT!!
But the other day, I was dreaming that this was just a dream.
Wouldn’t that be amazing to wake up and find I only had a dream?

And then someone says… “but Marie, Joe would never want you to suffer. He would want you to go on living, to be happy.”

And I WANT to say back to them…

But I don’t…

Yes, but Joe didn’t bury his wife, now, did he?
He doesn’t get a say.
Not anymore.

But I don’t say it because it seems unkind; like their words, their effort isn’t appreciated.
Like I wouldn’t care what he thought.
But I do care. I don’t know how to not care.
And even though I don’t say it, it’s true.
It’s how I feel in those moments of fierce anger.

And then …I remember
His pain.
His suffering.
His anguish.

He was lost in it…
Swallowed whole.

What was he feeling?

I never want to experience it…
But I do want to understand it.

And then somehow I find a way.

I eventually find a way in those moments to say thank you.

It’s okay. I’m ok. I’m not my thoughts.

Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.

Even if I don’t feel thankful in that moment I say it anyway.

A prayer. A request. A summons.

I feel it.

And this is grief. This is healing. Not a destination, but a journey.

For a lifetime.

This is all a part of it. It’s ugly, hard; painful.

And it’s also..

an opportunity.

For growth.
For compassion.
For feeling.
For love.
For kindness.
For expression.

Getting it out of the body. A little more each day.

Sadness and joy can exist together. They already are.

This is what my invitation to sadness looks like.

…and I’m still alright.

Thank you for reading. 

Much love.

xo, and peace.

Marie

Suicide is not a selfish act. It’s a desperate act.