Regarding my last post (and Scream)

Before I hit Publish on my last post, I asked my husband to read it first.

This is a big deal because he hasn’t read anything I’ve posted yet.

Not one post.

He told me that he would read them when I was ready.

I guess I was ready.  That, and I wanted to run it by him since I knew it might be a feather ruffler.

It was real hard for me to let him read it.  I paced the floor watching his face glow from the light of the computer screen. Watching him use the mouse to scroll through.

After he read over it, he paused.  A long, long pause.

Made me say it…made me ask…

Well?

He looked up at me with a sullen face.  A face that has spent the last almost seven months (oh!  I just looked over at the date on this computer…it is seven months today.  How did it pass by like this?) going through this with me and watching me grieve.  That face that doesn’t know how to comfort me…no matter how hard he tries.  The face that longs to reach this deep and painful place with love and embrace.  His expression said volumes.

He is incredibly sad for me but frustrated all the same.

Because he knows that there is no comfort for my broken heart. None.

And I guess he would do absolutely anything he could to take this pain away from me.

He answered with one word.

Sad.

And after a bit, this…

And Lib.  It’s heavy.  Really.  So heavy.

(The thought of

well…if you thought that post is hard to read wait until you read the rest of it

went through my head just then.)

My heart sank a little, I have to admit.  Yes, I realize this is heavy stuff.  These are some hard, hard words for most to read.

But it’s my reality.  I live with it.  Twenty four seven.

And if you are still following me…if you can still read these words of mine and still walk this out with me.  Thank you.

He then said something I will forever be grateful for.

He put his hands on both sides of his head and said this…

It feels like grief, Lib.  I feel your grief.

And it feels like that painting.  You know…the one with that guy screaming?

Yes!  

Like this

 

the-screamby-edvard-munch

The Scream, Edvard Munch, 1893

 

Yes.  This pretty much sums it up.

Except, if I would change one thing…this person would be in the dark more.

That’s how I often feel…

A silent scream in the dark.

3 thoughts on “Regarding my last post (and Scream)

  1. Grief, yes. Sadness, yes. Deep, dark sadness. BUT…but… the light, my friend, is there behind the veil of the grief and sadness. I see a side that perhaps family would not see, probably because of proximity. I see signs of healing. I see God holding you and wiping those tears in the way no one else can. In your words, I see the emotions that are felt in the face of loss. Raw, desperate, vulnerable but real. Honesty through healing. I don’t know if there is really beauty from ashes but I do know there is life. You are not alone. Never alone!

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  2. Libby, I feel your pain, really. I just don’t have the ability to express it like you do…and sometimes I put my hands on the sides of my head and scream. Yesterday was one of those days and THEY ARE HARD. You have been such a blessing in my life and I don’t want you to ever forget how much of a treasure you are to so many people. Grief is dark, ugly, sad, seemingly unending. No one will talk to me about Kehli. You are loved and your posts help me in SO many ways, as I felt a special bond with your son the first time you mentioned him to me. Wish I could just hug you and hold you and comfort you. Love you, sweet, sweet Libby.

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