The Dust is Worse Than the Fire

 

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When I walked out the door my heart was heavy, as I had no misconceptions about what was to come.  The sleepless nights, awkward situations and conversations, people choosing sides, the judgements.  I was as prepared as I could be.  I was level headed in my thinking, confident about my decision, and above all, I felt that knowing I did the right thing would soften the blow.

Wrong.

Now that the dust has settled, it’s old news and sympathies have been doled out, I am feeling worse and worse about my situation.  Don’t get me wrong, I am still confident in my choice and know it was unavoidable.  But it’s like when someone close to you passes away; you are devastated, but make it through all the funeral services with flying colors thanks to the outpouring of love and support.  However, once the company is gone, reality sets in, and you crumble.

You put on your happy face and chipper smile as you float through your days, but once the door to your home clicks shut, it’s about all you can do to not slink down in a pile of tears in front of it.

I thought that by now, 7 months later, I would be a new person. Or at least a person with a clear conscience and clear head.  I thought this would, for the most part, be behind me.  I guess that’s funny thing about grief; it moves in mysterious ways.  Some days I worry that I am not grieving enough- that perhaps I am covering my emotions.  I can go for weeks without thinking a thing of the divorce.  Other days, the weight of the grief is so heavy and obvious, I feel like I have a giant and ever-growing rock in my stomach.  And of course it comes in all of grief’s illustrious forms: tears, numbness, fiery anger, utter confusion and overwhelm.

In the end, I feel like I have walked through the fire.  I have the battle scars and burns to show for it.  So why isn’t that enough? Why does it seem that I am now choking from the ash and dust left in it’s path…