The Exhumation of Sadness

I realized today that I haven't taken my own advice. My understanding that this journey takes a long time has collided with my realization that it has been seven months since disclosure. I thought it would be different right now.

The sentencing is done. He will legally be gone from our lives for fifteen years.

So why do I feel like my skin is molten glass? Everyone can see through it to the pain below and every incursion upon my life leaves a mark.

In the beginning, I could cry. I could wander the aisles of the grocery store and feel foolish as I burst into tears. Now, I can't even cry if I soak in the tub and listen to the most depressing music around.

I need to cry but I don't know why. A few months back I knew why I was sad. I knew why I needed to break down. I cried and felt cleansed.

Now, I just feel separated. Alone. I can sit in a group of laughing people and feel a million miles deep and completely empty.

I've tried to figure it out. I've talked to myself. I've visualized this sorrow and held it in my arms like a lost child. I've held its fragile body next to mine and breathed in the baby powder scent off the top of its head. I've asked it, unsuccessfully, to tell me what's wrong. It only looks at me with saddened eyes, filled with tears. It just shakes its head and buries its face against me.

All I can do is hold it and rock it gently back and forth. Maybe we'll start together, a keening wail that will come from the very bottom of our soul.

It's the only language we have in common.





"It's an awful truth that suffering can deepen us, give a greater luster to our colors, a richer resonance to our words. That is, if it doesn't destroy us, if it doesn't burn away the optimism and the spirit, the capacity for visions, and the respect for simple yet indispensable things." -Anne Rice