Fear and Loathing in Everything

Unlike Hunter S Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey into the Heart of the American Dream, widow-ness is a savage journey in and of itself; it’s a journey into nothingness and everything-ness at the same time. The inconceivable amount of texture to life is both a terrifying void and a

gentle comfort. We have all heard the milk-toast platitudes: There can be no light without darkness,  Time heals all wounds, blah, blah, blah.

But a savage journey requires a savage heart. There are no safety blanket statements to make grief more palatable. The strength required to live with grief is constant. It doesn’t matter if it’s been four days or four
years or four decades–losing your mate is a forever loss.

So I look for the texture of summer shaded wind, and I hide from the blackhole inner dark spots.

I listen for the softness of  morning, and I cringe at the Barred Owls’ cries.

“Don’t be afraid of your fears. They’re not there to scare you. They’re there to let you know that something is worth it.”
― C. JoyBell C.

A doctor once said to me, “You aren’t IN pain–you’re just AFRAID of pain.” To an extent, that is true. I am afraid to let myself think about Kent for too long sometimes because I know it brings on the sadness. I am afraid, at times, to let myself hurt.

The problem with this is that If I don’t let it hurt, it hurts anyway and all at once and out of nowhere. 

I can’t control my grief, but I am learning to roll with its punches.

 

“Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant.” (Hunter S. Thompson)

 

What’s the best way to roll?

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