Grief
Grief is so unreliable. Inconvenient. Misshapen. Like cactus spines.
You think you've finally gotten each little fucker out, so maybe, maybe you can rest and heal for a bit. Lo and behold, five more little fuckers are still clinging to the inside of your flesh.
Like how? How did you not notice them before?
The answer is simply because the pain is so large, parts numb the fuck out and thaw in their own time.
Ah the wisdom parts work and IFS therapy bring you.
Had a decent day of feeling semi normal before gut wrenching myself around an invisible pole again. Spent the night on the metaphorical floor, humbled and annoyed.
Dig it out already.
That's all I can think. Over and over. I don't want it anymore.
The Wise part of me understands that having the love, memory, experience, and grief so intertwined in my subterranean depths indicate that the love is real, beautiful, and worth its price.
But The Caregiver, exhausted from back to back loss, furious and occasionally bitter, begs the universe to dig him out, no matter the damage to the subterranean.
I guess that rumination beats the ideation rumination. Enter shrug emoji here.
It will pass. But not before making me its bitch. On repeat.