After these years, I have known but discover more that there won’t be a time I don’t miss her. I have seen and read from adults in their fifties who miss their parents. That I still have so much of my life to live, and so many milestones to reach, and each time it’s an ache that she won’t get to be here for them. Each exciting moment is coated with a heaviness because of the loss that will always be there. There are still so many days, hours, minutes of my life that I have yet to live, and each day I wake up knowing that not one of those moments gets to be in her presence again. It’s the random days that hurt. While the birthdays, anniversaries and celebrations bring them to the forefront of your mind (as if they ever really leave), there are moments in a day you’re going about your life when it feels as if someone stabbed you in the stomach. Only a week ago, I was sobbing into my pillow because I thought about the fact I will literally never speak to her again; I will never know a conversation further than the ones we had in her lifetime, and those memories have warped themselves into snippets.
Life is generally all about going through the same sort of experiences but experiencing them differently. The one guarantee in life is death; the other being that you will likely experience the death of another before yourself. Art was the thing that truly forced me to feel. When I expressed myself for the sake of expressing, without judgement and with no plans on sharing it with other people, I began to heal. The words I wrote wove themselves back into myself and stitched up emotional wounds. The scars within myself became their own pieces of art, and everything about life became art, too.
“ART enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.
– Thomas Merton
Read more personal essays in Turning to Art to Deal with Grief ebook, shop here./**/