Wears on Me.

It's been 13 weeks. That is, for those of you not mathematically inclined, three months plus 7 days. You would think that with three months and seven days under our belt that things would look differently and that there wouldn't be that growing, intense ache of everything we feel still.

Let me be honest, it still hurts. Deep. Painful, pulling, aching. Most people can't take this, aim to ignore it, or goal to gloss it over with light conversation instead. This is hard and hurtful. I don't want you to understand, but I want you to let it hurt, to let it be, to let me just admit that it is still this way.

Yes, three months have past. Yes, I am making plans and adventures and trying to keep my head up and move on. We all are. But just because we're trying to keep positive and push forward doesn't mean that we don't consciously "put our right in front of our left." That one-step mentality isn't over.

Someone with medical insight asked me this week if I still engage in life, still find joy in things, still get up okay. Yes. Seriously, yes, I find joy in lots of things and have lots of good moments, and even some good full days. But don't get the impression that underneath it everything is always good. Grief doesn't end. It doesn't mean it rules every bit of you, but it doesn't end. It is always there and looms around, waiting, it wants you. And it comes at the quickest and oddest of times. Grief and I don't go hand in hand, it is a part of me, it wears on me. Every time I think I have finally take it off, I still find clinging to me.