I sit on the couch with both hands clutching my Chai Latte. I always have a drink in my hand – not because I am thirsty but because I need something to do to keep my hands quiet.
“Why now? Why after all of this time are you finding it hard to cope?” my therapist asks. I start to answer. “It’s because I’ve been holding it in for all of these years that I need help.”
I begin to feel overwhelmed. The pain is moving up through my stomach and into my chest. My eyes begin to burn. I tighten the grip around my cup.
I steady myself. I sit in silence for what seems like an eternity.
I am always quiet when I am in pain. Though when I do talk, it’s very fast and I always forget to breathe.
I know I am not alone.
Sometimes you forget to breathe as well.
I know there is someone sitting on a couch just like I am trying to explain why their heart hurts.
Can shift from having a good day to feeling the weight of sadness the next.
Or suffer in silence as you go to work and attend social events trying to distract yourself from thinking about the absence.
I know how it feels. The pain that moves quietly. That sits in the bottom of your stomach waiting to storm out of your body like a hurricane. And I know the pain that you can hold for years and never share with anyone. Sometimes you bury it so deeply that you hide it from yourself.
I believe emotion and sound is our first true language; therefore, pain like this doesn’t have words.
Your pain is personal, but if you are reading this then you know that your pain is understood. No matter its source.
Therefore, I write about my experience with grief even after all of this time.
I write so that you know even in the quietness of your pain, that you are not alone.
And I write so that others who may not have experienced this type of pain may understand that your quietness holds a universe of emotions and how to be compassionate to that.
I hear the silent screaming pain and write this to validate it and to let you know you are loved and supported.
IN LOVE & LIGHT
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