Waking up again

Sometimes I wake up unaware he is gone.  These are moments of bliss.  My life is whole.  We are together.  Everything is the same.  Then suddenly the guillotine of reality severs my thoughts.  We are broken.  I remember now.

At that moment I travel through a mini version of the macro shock and grief that has engulfed me for 18 months.  And while the shots of reality become familiar the news they deliver to my system remains as potently repulsive as ever… every time it seeps in.

Like falling asleep on a plane and waking up somewhere I wasn’t intending to go.  Each time I awake, surprised to be where I am, it becomes a little less unnerving.   Because, although I boarded a flight for Paris and am shocked to disembark in the jungle I remember this hellish detour happened yesterday too.

And the day before.

And the day before.

 

Some mornings, however, I do wake up knowing perfectly well where I am and what has happened.

But the simple fact that I have woken up… into this reality brings: ‘Aw fuck.  Really?  Really? Am I really still here?  Do I really still have to be doing this?  awwww-shit.’  And up I get.

fuck.

And go make school lunches.

“doing this” means; being a single parent.  being a grieving widow.  being lost.  being detached from the reality that was my life.  And doing my work, which is, now, learning to let go of being tethered to the things I want.  Being OK with floating, unattached to any outcomes, lives or dreams I think suit me.

Letting go of my flight plan.

And then I will be ok waking up in the jungle.

In the jungle

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