I guess it’s inevitable that after the swoop comes the slump. The swelling nausea as the ground surges up, filling my eyes and blocking my sight.
I can’t even see clouds from here.
There never seems to be a reason, no clue as to what prompts the sudden dizzying topple after days when strength and light pulse. But still I search for the slip. Still wonder why I let myself think that maybe this time there would be no tumble, that I had climbed to a spot I could not be knocked off, that the ground was solid beneath my feet.
Grief is like a badge. It marks me out. There are days when that difference flows and fills me, others when it feels like a weakness, something sown into my skin that I cannot rip out.
I am trying to tolerate these nows, to accept the flowering numbness, nothingness, and believe that it will pass on again. I try to loosen my fingers and let it slide on, to let the river flow.
I wish I could pick the down days, circle them on the calendar, prepare, be ready, retreat. But they seem to come in a crowd, when I have to smile, when being is not enough.