I find myself struggling with this impossible battle of the highs and lows of grief. I’ve heard some compare it to the waves of an ocean and have myself likened it to a tsunami.
But lately, as hard as I try to move forward, find meaning, get better, I’m starting to wonder if maybe grief can be best compared to addiction.
Some days I wake from a beautiful dream where I’ve held my baby again. As I drift from sleep, I can feel his warmth, smell his breath, the weight of his soul pressed against my restful body.
For a brief moment I have him again, the burden of sadness has lifted, and I am weightless in peace and grace.
Then, as I waken to consciousness, I begin to remember and the high fades. He’s gone again, the heaviness returns and the ache begins to spread. Silence. Pain.
Choices. Another day of memories, suppressing tears, putting one foot in front of the other. Effort.
So many days are so much effort. Some days it’s so hard just trying to be the mom who’s living without her son. And I would give anything to get that high one more time. To feel him, smell him, hold him, one more time.
It’s an addiction. Wanting one more moment with the one I lost.