i know where I live: surviving in this desert of grief

How do you live in the desert? How do you find comfort while being engulfed by the intensity of grief and sadness, like waves of suffocating heat? I am not sure if I have been living in this desert, or just surviving. I haven’t tried to thrive, to flourish, to grow, just get through.

Nothing feels self-sustaining in this desert. Nothing comes easy. And nothing stays. And even if it did, I would avoid it. Permanence seems so malice now that the truth of impermanence has made itself known. Now that I know the terror of forever in its only true form: death.

The sheer panic of waking up and realizing you are still gone, you will always and forever still be gone. Why would would I want to pretend that anything good is permanent. I know it is a lie. I know the truth of this lie in my bones.

– – –

I hope in time this desert will grow quiet. That the loudspeaker that is my thoughts will be be muted and I will be able to hear my heart more clearly. Be able to just focus on all the love I still have for you, all the hurt and sadness your leaving has caused. I hope the quiet will bring us closer together again.

In solitude, I want to be engulfed by your memory. I want to sit in the silence until I can smell you, until I can feel you, until I can hear you. I want solitude to bring me back into relation with you. I want emptiness to fill me with your presence. And then we can be alone, together.

– – –

I know where I live. I know this terrain of trauma that is my body. I know the aches and pains that orchestrate how I move through the world. I have studied the waves of panic and mania that flood my lands. I can feel them coming, gaining strength; I can predict their paths. I am the student of my trauma.

I know where I live. I have mapped out the holes in my heart. The big ones, the small ones, the aching ones, the slippery ones. I know how to walk these plains and not fall in. I know which holes need to be sat with, the holes that need my care, my presence, my acknowledgement and acceptance. I am the keeper of my trauma.

I know where I live. I find comfort in the familiarity of surviving. I find comfort in knowing how to explore this trauma body. I know new holes, new currents, new aches, new affects are coming and I know how to get to know them. I am the witness for my trauma.

I know where I live. And I know it’s not going to change overnight. I would be homesick if I woke a new person, a new land, a new terrain. I would miss the familiarity of my body, no matter how pained, how sad, how manic. I have never been an easy body to live in, and I am my own comfort, my own safety, my own grounding. I am the home for my trauma.

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i know where I live: surviving in this desert of grief

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