I’m not in the same place as I was 71 days ago. I’m not sure how I got here, but I am different. I still cry for my missing daughter, usually unexpectedly, without my permission, and at odd times; like at a professional development workshop. Some days go by without my crying at all. Some days I am derailed by a thought or an event, and I spend hours in unchecked mourning. I no longer live in a daze anesthetizing me from overwhelming grief. Still, just this morning I felt that this possibly could not have actually happened to me: My brain’s way of protecting me from the horror. I’ve been able to find ways to express my grief. I write, I’ve created a memorial space for her, I talk about her when I can, I read other’s stories; their experiences and how they’re moving forward, I meet with friends, I look at her pictures, I listen to songs, and watch videos. Logically, it seems these things would be too painful, that the pain would destroy me. But I embrace the pain and the grief and, instead of being destroyed by it, I find I move past it and even feel healing. It is difficult to describe and I don’t really understand it. I am progressing.
I seem to be progressing more quickly than my husband.
He is unsure of how to move forward. He is nearly paralyzed by anger and betrayal. My heart aches to help him, but we grieve differently. Nothing I say helps. All I can do is listen to him. I feel so helpless. I grieve for him. I grieve for the husband I lost on the day Victoria slipped away. He is a different man, as I know I am different. He carries sadness in his soul. I see it in his eyes and in the way he walks. It is a reflection of the sadness in my own soul. Sadness has become the air we breathe; a familiar, cloying presence. We are weary with sadness. It has become part of who we are. He has good days, as do I, but is struggling more than me. He knows I am slowly moving forward and he is afraid to be left behind. He has to go to work all day, while I get to stay home and process through my grief. Weekends are the most difficult for him and therefore, for me. After being distracted and preoccupied with other things throughout the week, he has time to think on the weekend and is confronted by questions, anger, and feelings of betrayal. Like a snapping rubber band the week stretches by without much emotion only to catch up on the weekend.
He has been unable to receive comfort from God though he has cried out to him. The test of faith continues? Going to church is an excruciating experience for him. Every song is about promises we never received. Every message is about faith where we have dismally failed. It is difficult for me too, but not to the same degree. I tell him everything will be ok, he will be ok. This will take time. I remind him that we will have good days and bad days. I mourn with him on the bad days and rejoice with him on the good days.
Somehow we will make it. We have to make it.
