And then it hits. Like a line drive straight to the gut. It was a good day. What the hell? I came home, started making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when a grief-filled fast ball wrapped in confusion and anguish hit me out of nowhere. It honestly felt like something physically hit me. I dropped the knife that I was using and cradled my head in my hands.
Tears welled up and just as fast as this “force” hit me, it was gone. “What the fuck, ” I whispered to myself. I looked back at my unmade sandwich and almost threw it away. How can I eat? But I did. I made myself because I’ll be damned if he is the reason that I get sick. I ate that sandwich and distracted myself with work which seemed to help.
Two or three months ago, this scenario would have been different. Grief waves weren’t a thing for me because I was swimming in an ocean of grief. I couldn’t even make it back to the shoreline to appreciate the occasional wave. Appreciate? Yes, appreciate, because those waves remind me of how much I’ve grown. They remind me of my strength now.
Two or three months ago, I wouldn’t have been making a sandwich. At this time, I was at my lowest weight since college (12 years ago). And trust me, I’m not bragging. No matter what I tried to do, I couldn’t gain the weight. But who can eat when your new husband had left without any warning and gone no contact? Oh memories.
But today I ate, I breathed through my grief and then moved on with a distraction. So, I revert to my second sentence of this post: Today was a good day.