Smack in the middle of grieving a huge loss. Sitting deep in the middle of the Forest of Unknowing. Carrying this marvelous body of work, hoping to get it out into the world. I feel SO fracking messed up. And my FEAR is that I will never move from this place. That I will just molder here, growing grayer by the minute, slumping further down into a hunched mound of pathetic old lady.
I know this is very different than past posts but something happened Friday to deepen my loss and I am just struggling desperately to not be crushed by it. And so far I am feeling as if I am losing the fight. For the most part today I have just felt thoroughly exhausted.
I am dealing with grieving by degrees. In my case, the loss is not all at once but comes piecemeal, bit by bit each day, without a forseeable end. And of course my main Fear is that the losses WILL keep coming forever because of the circumstances. The other Fear is that I will just be endlessly sucked down by the continued loss. That I will never again feel strong, let alone healed or healthy.
How do I do this? How do I climb out of this quicksand?
There are friends in my support system. And my mom just came for a visit. People shouting from beside the quicksand for me to grab hold of something and pull myself out; but frankly, I just don't see the branches or ropes or whatever as viable options. They just get me out of one pool of quicksand only to walk along and fall into another. And I am tired. Tired and sad and angry and afraid.
Grieving sucks.
So I spent the weekend NOT in my studio. This was perhaps NOT what I should have done. But it is what I did do, or didn't,... The piece I am working on is very much about loss and rising out of loss and I think, actually, perhaps, I needed to wallow in this loss for a couple of days. On Thursday and Friday I worked on the piece a bit and got to a place of depicting that from which one rises, the broken heart of loss. But I have not at all felt the strength to address the rising. So, perhaps this dark and scary time was needed for me to grasp what will come next in the piece. Who knows.
The wallowing is past however, I may choose to do more tomorrow, but I cannot beat myself up over the weekend in the quicksand. That won't get me out of it. I suppose I need to be kind and loving and patient with that self in the mudhole. She's/I'm in a really crappy place, my best hand out of it is going to have to come from me. And it needs to be a kind hand.