It's Always Darkest Before The Dawn

I realized today that I have tried to skim over and push away what happened to me in the immediate days and weeks that followed Cj’s death, as if I had fully moved on. I have avoided writing about it because to acknowledge it, would be to make it real. And to make it real, would be to feel the full weight of the complete and utter devastation his loss has caused me. But as hard as it is to write about, I know that in order to really work on my own healing, I have to first come face-to-face with my pain. 

The saying about time healing all wounds was enough to make me sick. I didn’t want to hear it, because for me it wasn’t true. I could never fully heal from this, the scars of loss would be imbedded in my soul forever, even if not physically visible - They would always be there.

I laid in bed facing the wall. Maybe I was sleeping, or maybe I had just been laying there for hours in a half conscious state begging for sleep - the lines between the two had become too blurred for me decipher one from the other. My waking state was filled with just as many nightmares as my sleep, and each gave me such terror that I became crippled. 

Her attempt at discretion was thoughtful, but I heard her light footsteps the moment she entered my room. Still, I didn’t move. I didn’t have the strength nor the desire for anything other than silence from the unbearable pounding that surrounded my head. When she crawled on to the bed next to me, her movements slow and calculated as to not disturb the sleep she too begged for me, I felt the weight of her as the mattress shifted under my lifeless body. I continued to face the wall, the only view I could handle, and remained motionless. Grief wouldn’t allow me to even lift my head, let alone acknowledge my mothers presence next to me as I felt her press her palm gently on my back. My breaths were shallow and she needed to touch me, she needed to make sure I was still breathing and to feel that my heart was still beating somewhere beneath all of that pain. 

Tears welled in my eyes and marked my pillow, but I remained still. No sobs. No moans or hiccups, just silent streams of grief looking for an exit. I didn’t know what time it was. I didn’t know what day it was. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten or taken a shower. I didn’t even know how long I had been laying there, nor did I care. I didn’t have the capacity to care anymore. I felt empty and lifeless and the only thing I could bring myself to do was silently cry each time I remembered that my friend was dead. 

My eyes fluttered open and strained in the daylight that filled the room. The green microsuede was a mere inch from my face, but I didn’t remember leaving my bed.  I didn’t remember moving to the couch, but there I was curled up small with my face tucked in its crevice. I was wearing the same dingy t-shirt and mismatched sweatpants that I was the last time I had noticed, but I didn’t know if it was the same day. I could smell my own sour scent of sweat and unshowered filth, but I didn’t care. I rolled over, my hair matted and tangled against my scalp, and saw the figure laying on the other end of the couch. 

“CJ,” I wanted to call out, but the words caught in my throat as my mothers head popped up and looked at me with red-rimmed and sleepy eyes. Her presence hit me like a ton of bricks to the face. My breath caught in my throat and my body began to shake with painfully heavy sobs. She jumped up and came to me, wrapping me in her arms as tight as she could and rocked me back and forth. Her own tears hit my head with the force of hammers. All I could manage was to sink my face into her chest as she stroked my matted hair until the comfort of sleep arrived once more. 

My eyes opened to complete darkness. I was laying on my bed, sweating from every pore with the heat of the summer night that rushed in through the open windows. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel his presence in the room. I could feel him in the thick hot air around me, and I wanted to call out to him. I wanted to beg him to come back. Beg him to tell me that it was all a sick joke and everything was okay. But I didn’t move. Instead, I shut my swollen eyes as tight as I could and begged for more sleep to take me away. 

The sun was blinding and the sound of the curtains rushing open startled me from my dark dreams. She stood over me, a false sense of strength and determination covering her face. 

“Come on,” she said. “Time to get out of bed.” She reached for my hand to help me up, but I just stared at her.  I rolled the other direction and brought my knees to my chest and cried.  Quiet and weak whimpers were all I could manage in my withering state. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to be awake. I didn’t want anything anymore. But there she was, my beautiful mother, overwhelmed with worry for me. And still, all I could do was cry. 

Although each of these days and weeks seemed to overlap and creep into one another, I somehow was able to get through them - one day at a time. I eventually started counseling to deal with my grief and had an unwavering amount of support consisting of countless friends and family members by my side every step of the way. Without my mother’s love and some of those friends taking a pause from their own lives and their own personal grief to literally help me function, I don’t know if I would have ever been able to come as far as I have. 

Grief still cripples me from time to time, usually at the most unpredictable and inconvenient moments, but I am now able to stop and deal with it in a much healthier way. Sharing my story and releasing some of the hurt through my writing has been both hard and healing at the same time, and I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read my posts. 

Sometimes, when I feel that the darkness is too much for me to bear, I remind myself that it is always the darkest before the dawn. And knowing that I am not alone keeps me going.