Wounds

For a long time now I’ve felt a need to write my experiences during the time of Brad’s death and his funeral. I know I’ll want to look back on it one day. I know Leah will want to understand. I don’t want to forget. 

For now though, it’s so very easy to put that off. 

Of course, I’m a crazy woman and feel like my plate is constantly overflowing, but mostly, I don’t like doing anything that causes me pain. 

See, I’ve discovered how to lock my grief away and forget about it. (I’m not talking about any illegal substances here, just so we’re clear.) Sometimes I have to fight it to stay in that nice little cage. Sometimes it cooperates and other times it fights back with a vengeance. (uh….did anyone see me two Sundays ago?) 

But, I know that bottling up all my emotions is not the healthiest thing to do, for me or any others that might be affected when I explode and spill molten hot crazy all over them. 

It’s like a wound, I’ve decided. It not only has to heal. It has to heal properly. 

I remember listening to my aunt and uncle a few years ago as they shared what it was like to deal with a three year old with third degree burns all over her back. (Really sad story. Let’s just say, who ever decided that it was a good idea to give toddlers little sparkling sticks of fire and tell them to run and wave it around was seriously looney.) 

I remember my aunt saying that they had to scrub her burns in the bath tub. Can you imagine how much that must’ve hurt her? How sad for her parents to listen to her scream? Heartbreaking. 

If they had just left it, like I’m sure that three year old wanted them to, eventually that wound would’ve probably healed all on it’s own. But it wouldn’t have healed right. It would’ve had lots of problems. Infection, disfiguration, and probably more pain, because a doctor would eventually have to fix the improper healing. 

So they scrubbed. 

And the burn healed–the right way. It took a while, and I can’t imagine it was easy. But now that burn that used to run from her neck to her hips and rib cage to rib cage, is a small scar. (Some of that is because she’s all grown up and like….11 or something. She’s so cute and the coolest 11 something year old too, by the way.) 

I think grief is like that. Something’s happened that causes a giant wound to rip through us. It’s overwhelming painful at first. We don’t think we can suffer through it, but as time goes on, we start to heal. But we have to do it the right way or eventually, we’ll realize that that wound we thought was all better, really isn’t. 

And then...molten hot crazy. 

Writing down my experience is like scrubbing the wound. I need to do it. They’re are lots of things I need to do to help my wound heal. 

So if you happen to see me a little...off...just know that I’m allowing my little monster out of his cage. Hopefully, he doesn’t freak out on you.