Processing

Some things take time. 

My head works around things, sometimes and necessarily avoids the issues. Coping enough to allow day to day function and a whole ability to just be.

The face doesn’t drop and it doesn’t rise. The problems are there. The days pass and move on.

I get there, I realise what I’ve done or not done. It hits hard. The emotional crunch. A bite of humility, a torn piece of pride, sadness at the pit of my stomach, shallow and almost worthless breathes.

I grieve and fixate and the possibilities burn in my mind and weigh at me. It bites my mood and appetite and desires.

The functioning continues, days and weeks and work and home.

Days go into weeks and months and years and I think whether I can raise my head again, regain the ‘mojo’, the essence, the bits of me subsumed in that hurt and dealing with it.

Tears at random times. Inexplicably not when I’d like them to happen. 

Bursts of frustration and anguish. Minutes of darkness. Days of numb.

Does it lift? It’s like a cloud blanket screening the sun, it’s like fog. 

Permission isn’t granted to escape it. No driving thoughts of renewal or restoration. Merely existing and being.

It’s hard to explain, it’s hard to see through the moments clearly, it difficult to replay the pictures in the mind and hard to admit the loss and the pain and the defeat.

It’s not for talking over and making a public sport. Random sympathy doesn’t quite help. Hearing stories or being patronised won’t cut it.

Rising again isn’t that straightforward but the processing completes and the emotions dull after a while.