A Grief of My Own

Its after ten pm. Tears pouring down my face. I've discovered something the past few months. There are certain days of my past where I've experienced traumatic and heartbreaking things. I have come to realize that during those specific days, I struggle with my emotions and my moods more than other days. 

I'm not sure how to explain it. Perhaps if you have experienced it, then you would know. 

I take it as hope that I have finally reached a place in my life that God says I'm doing well enough to safely dig through this rotting garbage, and clean it out. The other years never affected me, perhaps because I was buried too deep. 

Today it has been one year since I learned my Gramma died. I don't say passed away. Passed away, to me, gives the event a somber, clean, fake feeling. Wrapped up, nice and neat, in a black box. But Death is not fake and Death is not neat. It is very much real and messy, and gives life to an intense, heart-wrenching pain that leaves me gasping for air. It is akin to a panic attack. I've learned that grief is the emotion I feel the most. I am not able to hide grief away into myself and bury it like I'm able to do with other emotions. 

I sit in my apartment, surrounded by my gramma's things. Every time I open the cupboard or turn on the lamp or look at the pictures on my walls, I have a million memories flying through my mind. Each one of those memories leads to a spasm of pain. Eventually, this pain will fill me up until it spills out, and then process starts over. One day, I hope to remember my gramma without this pain. I hope to remember her voice, her loving touch, her beautiful smile, and her funny sarcasm. 

Oh, Lord, please, I just want one more hug. And I don't want to let go.