It's Not A Rant, It's My Reality

Ever notice when we really want to express what affects us deeply we call it a rant. I've had those rants before, I'll have them again. I've started conversations with I'm just gonna rant here for a second. Or, finished a discussion with, that's it, end of rant.

We are allowed to do this, required to do this. It is not a rant, it is reality. Maybe your reality is a loss of another kind, loss of life as you knew it to a health diagnosis, loss of a marriage, loss of a child, loss of identity, loss of faith, loss of trust. 

We don't have to apologize up front for feeling our feelings and sharing our pain. Owning it and sharing it divides the pain. We are called to share of ourselves. Granted it is so much easier to share the absolute joys of life. It is a much deeper experience to share the pain of life. Not that others can take that weight completely from us. I'd pass it on in a heart beat if that was really an option. Here, you take this pain, it sucks. But no, it's ours to walk through. Holding it in a tight knot prolongs the pain. We have to release it to relieve it. Having a story means little if we don't tell it.

My reality is I lost my husband to suicide. I lost him over a long period of time before mental illness claimed him. The man I married and the man I buried were not the same man. I lost him and life as I knew it. I lost the me I was before, the things I trusted as constants. I lost hopes and dreams. 

My reality is people never mentioning that lost life of mine. It is knowing that simply saying I lost him to suicide will full on stop a conversation. It is rebuilding a new life one day at a time. It is finding small joys, and working through great grief. It is finding peace in a solitude I never asked for. It is finding the words to share my journey and actually speaking them.

My reality is sharing my story, as I am able, as I grow through it. I promise, I am growing through it. It is opening up to others. It is acknowledging others pain as they walk through it. It is realizing I still have much to give.

I can share of myself repeatedly, passionately, emphatically and without apology. It is okay to speak of hard things. It is not a rant, it is my reality. 

Fine Line

There is a infinitely fine line between joy and grief. I never realized that until the grief journey became my path in life. Perhaps, one must experience great loss to fully embrace great joy. Not that I didn't have an appreciation for joy before. I did, I think. But, and there is always a but, there is a depth to it that came with experiencing loss.

This is good news. There are a few good things that come from the experience of a death by suicide, or other tragic loss. Gifts, if you will. It's nearly impossible to see the gifts at first. And, truthfully, one would never ask for these gifts. Never in a million years. Some gifts are destined for us. 

The gift of tears. No one wants to cry from pain, from loss. It's much easier to cry with joy. Tears cleanse, tears heal, tears always remind me I'll come out stronger on the other side. And I do. The gift of growth. Growth is hard, no one wants to learn this way. But, what an education. The gift of learning I need to ask for what I need. I'm suck at this. I am a push through, do without, make due person. I'm learning to reach out, to share my story, to ask for what I need. Loss has been a catalyst for this. The gift of depth. As the healing goes on I feel deeper. Deeper pain, yes. But also deeper joy. It's a fine wobbly line in between, but crossing back and forth is part of life. The gift of awareness and self care. I can't help you if I don't take care of me first. There is a life lesson if I ever saw one.

Here is the deal. Feel things. Feel deeply. Feel gratefully. Feel with tears, when tears come. Feel with laughter, when laughter comes. It's a fine line, this life of ours. A line that offers gifts. Accept them.