For a long time I did not want to admit that. People keep telling me how strong I am. What a survivor I am. How very very brave I am.
Those words kept me from admitting the truth. Even to myself.
A long time ago in a life that no longer is reality, a man told me that he had seen horses break more easily than I. That I was strong and wild and free. My whole life I have heard this. How strong I am. I took that as a compliment. As a reason to be proud. I considered myself a soldier knowing what I knew about life at the time and forging on ahead anyway. I thought that made me strong. Fearless. Solid.
But this? This broke me. And I have to be ok with that.
I have to be ok with the thought that just because I broke does not mean I am weak or incompetent or incapable. It does not mean that somehow I failed. This should have broke me. If anything ever could or did or will, the death of my child should have broke me. Wide open. Into a million tiny pieces swirling into a blackness so deep that the only thing that can come from it is something new. That is what is happening to me. I am becoming.
I am learning that to accept something does not mean that I have to agree with it. It just means that it is and there is no changing it. No turning back. It truly is what it is.
I think this is the first step towards healing.
God that feels so guilty to say. Even to myself.
Does that make me a bad person? To believe in life after death? To want to have a sense of peace again?
What gives me the right to heal while my son rots in his grave.
What gives me the right to ever accept this. To be happy?
Let go and move on are not the right words. Not the right words at all. But there has to be something more than this.
More than this broken human with a smile on her face.