I thought more about my previous blog post of slamming doors closed when I’m not ready to open them. One of the whacked-out things about grief is I still find myself cracking open those doors and taking a peek inside. I usually do that when I know I’m alone and can ugly cry if it comes down to it. I put on a facade in public. I hide my tears and my grief because I don’t want to have a come-apart in front of everyone. My bosses at work are super about this. They respect my need to keep it together and I’m sure they probably don’t want me to have a come-apart either. I imagine what would happen if I did. They would hold me way out in front of themselves like a snake on a stick. “Omg, it’s CRYING. What do we do with it??”
At home, though, I have this innate desire to pick at that newly half-healed scab and rip it off. I want to heal and I don’t want to deal with dark things in the future that I was too chicken shit to face in the early days. A friend told me a few years back that he admired how I can self-reflect and self-analyze. I guess that’s the psychology lover in me. I need to truly understand what makes me tick and the only way to do that is to delve into the dark corners of my mind and poke around as if the mushiness of my mind is a mysterious blob in the yard and I’m poking at it with a stick, “Hey, what’s under THERE?”
Being able to do that helps me heal enough to where I can re-visit the harder memories. I have all the time in the world to do that. It’s how I find order in the chaos.
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