There’s a Grief that Can’t be Spoken-Part 1

6 08 2013

Author’s  Note:  This post has been something that I have been marinating in my brain for a few years, I’m really not sure what has led me to share a part of my story, but it is my hope that you might know a little bit more about me, and that you might appreciate something of my story.  This is a three-part series, this is part one, obviously.

It was raining.  I remember that day.  I came home from the beach two days prior, and was having a pretty okay day.  Nothing memorable, but I suppose that all that I would remember is now just a mist in that.  I don’t remember how I found out, all I do remember is the ache in my heart when I realized that she was gone.

I knew her in high school.  She was in a second group of friends, we’d go to the coffee house, spend time there.  Anytime I wanted to just hang out with someone, I’d always go to Moby’s and she’d always be there, sitting at her table, doing schoolwork or reading or something like that.  No topic was off-limits.  At first, I was just a part of the group with her, and it was likewise for me.  Then, somehow, it became not a group, but an individual relationship with each other.  Towards the end of our time together, we had begun to call each other rather regularly, and we’d be on the phone for hours, just catching up, dealing with each other’s struggles, and being an avenue of support.  It was her faith that inspired me.  Not just her faith in God, but her faith in people.  Sometimes, she rubbed me the wrong way, and said things that I really didn’t agree with.  I’d tell her so, and she’d laugh, and tell me that “true friends don’t exist to agree with you, but challenge you.”  To her, I would tell the deepest darkest thoughts, the most terrible thoughts that I thunk, and she accepted them, loved them, said they reminded her that people were all human.  She encouraged me, strengthened me. 

I remember small details about her.  She loved converses, loved God, loved me, loved coffee, particularly if it were cold.  She had this smile that was infectious.  She always, always saw the good in people, especially if they were being particularly annoying.  She always hoped, and she always believed.  She loved to discuss the important things, and loved hugs.  She loved purple, and wanted purple leopard print everything.  If you needed her, all you needed to do was to shoot her a phone call or a text, and she was there.  She always posted encouragement online.  She always told me she loved me. 

I know that she knew I loved her.  I don’t know if I ever told her that I loved her too.  But I know she knew.  I don’t know why I hardly told her…that is one of my biggest regrets thus far. 

Then she died.  The newspapers will tell you that she died because she was texting.  The combination of that, hydroplaning, and a particularly nasty curve caused her car to hit a tree.  She was conscious at the scene, was able to talk for a little bit, but the internal bleeding was all too much, and she died.  She was on her way to church.

I’ve often wondered what she was thinking as she was getting ready that morning, what song was in her head, what she wore.  I’ve often wondered what she was thinking after she hit the tree, if she was in pain. 

Like I said, I don’t remember hearing that she had died.  I just know that I was obviously told.  My friends tried to rally around me, but it was just a little too much to bear.  I remember after the funeral, I took off, and spent some time with a dear friend in Winston, who remains a very close friend to this day, because she was very helpful in this whole grief process.  I remember counting down the days and the months that has passed since I saw her last, since I had last spent time with her. 

I spent the summer living in this hole of a camp.  Not that the camp was horrible, I experienced some of my most favorite experiences while I was there, but I call it a hole, because no one could get in touch with me.  I worked at this camp, worked with my fellow people, and healed, partially.  My coworkers were phenomenal with this.  They were really supportive and helpful throughout this process.  Despite the fact that we have since parted ways, I still am very appreciative of all that they did for me, and I am unable to repay them for the help and encouragement they offered. 

That summer was just a learning process through which I had to learn how to focus on more than my emotions.  Sure, I was heartbroken in many more ways than one, but I also had things to do, things to accomplish…and I couldn’t just sit around all day and whine about poor, pitiful me.  I had to do something with my life.  I had to pick myself up and continue to move on.  I couldn’t just let my life stop with her death. 

When people die, the most important lesson you can remember is that your life still goes on.  Sure, you’ll hurt alot.  You might even hurt forever.  Sometimes, it feels like that.  But you can hurt and move on with your life.  Recently, I find myself missing her so very much, much more than usual.  I think it’s because there have been several huge milestones in my life are coming to full circle, and it pains me that she isn’t there to experience them with me.  It’s rather sad that she’s not going to be a part of my life, and the things that the future holds for me.  I know that she’s always with me, and I know that she’s always there for me, but it’s the physical aspect that I miss the most, the ability to sit there and tell her all about the things I’m dealing with. 




2 responses

7 08 2013
There’s a Grief that Can’t be Spoken-Part 2 | deafragamuffin

[…] Author’s Note:  This is part two in a three-part series.  You can check out the first part here!  […]

8 08 2013
There’s a Grief that Can’t Be Spoken-Part 3 | deafragamuffin

[…] This is the last segment in this week’s series.  You can check out the first two segments here and here.  I am so grateful for all of the positive response I’ve had through this series.  […]

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