My long-time companion

I've had a companion for the past 11 years. One that is always with me. If you meet me face to face, you may catch a glimpse once in a while. Maybe Her reflection in my eyes as I look past you. You may see me staring off at Her in the distance. You surely know Her voice as you've been listening to Her since we first met.

She has journeyed with me across this country. Protecting me. Saving me from pain. Comforting me when I've reached my lowest and smiling shyly, but knowingly, when I've reached my highest. She doesn't require much...just me and my attention.

And She is always quick to remind me when I have left her alone for too long. Four years ago I began to drift away from her. I discovered a part of myself that was in direct odds with the wishes and demands of Her. Our paths diverged. We visited as often as we could but our relationship could not be sustained. I was learning and growing and she wanted me to stay exactly as I was...Hers.

Then, enter 2020 and Covid-19. The isolation of the past year was a perfect opportunity for me to reconnect with my long-time companion. We began with whispered talks in the middle of the night. Long walks in the charmed neighborhoods of the Outer Banks. I spent the summer with her in Oak Island, NC and Bucksport, SC....isolated from the rest of the world. Watching the world struggle to not collapse under the weight of an invisible virus.

We knew what this felt like. It felt like Home. Because this was our struggle every day. To not succumb to a disease that ravaged parts of our soul from the inside out. The two of us became inseparable. My relationships with my husband and family and friends fell away and I was all Hers. It stayed like this until this yesterday.

Yesterday, I finally said goodbye to Her as I drove from my mother's house back to our boat in Georgetown, SC. I released Her from my clammy grasp because I knew our relationship was no longer sustainable. Over the last 7 weeks She has consumed me every second and I could not breathe any longer. She had taken over my mind, my heart and my body. I felt as though I had become a shell of a human being, pretending to be ok yet crumbling any time someone looked hard enough beneath the façade. With ragged breath I tried desperately to describe my relationship with Her with those I trusted. But even as I said the words aloud, they made no sense. They were irrational. I was irrational. And She...She was a beast begging me not to leave.

Her name is Grief. She comes to visit us all at some point in each of our lives. For some, She visits and we dance with Her and then She moves on to another partner. For others, we give our lives over to Her willingly because we know that with Her, we are never alone. She is willing to give everything it takes to protect us from feeling the loss of love ever again. And we unwittingly become grateful to Her for her determination.

When Grief came to me 11 years ago on this very day, I wept. I let Her hold me. She supported me as I moved through the loss of my father and held my hand as my life shifted over and over and over again. She stepped back as I fell in love but she never really left. She knew I had been a faithful lover to her and maybe this was my reward... a year to discover what it felt like to love another person deeply. But, I felt Her presence. Her shadow was always there, looming over me and my loved ones.

Two months ago, my mother suffered an injury. Not life threatening but I saw my mother in a way I never had before. Fragile. My mother became a risk to me. That risk was knowing that one day, who knows when, I would lose her. And it scared me. It scared me so much that I, at times, could no longer carry myself. And who do we run to when we are at our most scared? Our trusted companions. For me, that was Her. Grief. She took over. She carried my fear. She breathed for me. She told me that She would never leave me. She kept me busy avoiding any other part of my life except Her and allowed my monkey mind to run free with every deep, dark worry and fear that I could conjure. My mother is going to die. Tomorrow? Ten years from now? How could I ever survive this? Why would I want to? And down the rabbit whole I went, and went, and went. After a particularly scary event one morning with my mom, and a trip to the ER sure that we were going to lose her, I found myself sitting with Grief. Staring Her in the face. This time, though, she wasn't sitting with me. She was sitting before me, with my step-father. I recognized Her in the quiver of his breath, the shaking of his hands, the staring, vacant eyes that slowly filled with tears. I saw Her in the fear that coursed through his heart. And I whispered the words I knew She didn't want him to hear. "You must go now. He is not your home. We are leaving here today with my mother and, my dear friend, you will have to wait." That day, that "event" as my family refers to it, changed us all. In ways we know and in ways we don't yet.

For me, that was the day I saw what Grief looks like when She no longer inhibits my body. I saw Her fear. Her anguish. Her desperate attempt to not be alone. And I, for the first time in a very long time, felt my own strength. My determination. My will to live and love and to not give up one more day to my companion. I wanted to be Me. Not her. I wanted to survive the day. I wanted to survive the next week. The next month and the next year. I felt the hand of my Creator on mine in the days that followed, reminding me of my faith and that Love is birthright. And so, I broke up Grief yesterday. I said goodbye on the eve of the 11th anniversary of my Father's passing.

Today, I woke up with a lightness in my heart. I think this is what hope feels like. I held my husband. I cuddled with my dog. I told them both that I loved them. I honored my Father with a walk in nature listening to music he would get a kick out of. I laughed at the memory of his laugh and smiled with the vision of his smile. I connected with my brothers and my mother and step-father. And for the first time in 11 years, I did not worry. I did not fear. I simply lived. I lived as I was born to do. In a state of absolutely love and gratitude.