I was told, time and time again, that the second year isn't any better than the first in grief, which I took to heart. So now that I'm in this second year, why am I so surprised at just how not-better it really is? I took the warning to heart - didn't that safeguard me against the reality of the it? Feels like I'm walking a thousand miles, and at marker 500, I'm shocked there's still 500 more to go. That can't be right.
But I still got grief. I still get angry and depressed and feel awkward about my deal in social situations and want to sleep all day. And of course, I still cry in the shower, while driving and when a TV show or movie shows anything even remotely emotional. Sure, I've made progress. 500 miles walked so far. I can laugh at funny things and smile when I'm happy. Shit, I'm able to say I can be happy: that's a hell of a miracle.
I guess I just want to know when things can actually start getting better. Nobody has anything conclusive for that one, though. They say grief takes it's own pace and every grief is different, and other thoroughly aggravating truths. At the end of the thousand miles, is that place called 'better?' Or will there be two thousand more before 'better' gets to where I am? The only thing anyone can tell me is to keep walking. 'Just keep swimming,' as Dory would say. Or 'keep moving forward,' from Meet The Robinsons. Disney seems to have a bead on this shit. But that magical, mystical land of 'better:' I can't just flash forward there like Simba going from adolescent to adult over the span of one rendition of "Hakuna Matata." I guaran-goddamn-tee you, they cut out tons of footage of Simba shower-crying.
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