It's almost been three weeks and it's as fresh as three minutes. Three weeks means that time has in fact passed and time didn't stop. I wish this were the case so that I could process my trauma and every detail surrounding it. The most ridiculous advice is "be strong"- as though I can rummage through all my pain and anguish to be a character of stealth and survival. Sometimes I'm a rag doll with a happy face and other times I'm just a doll with a low battery life and just enough energy to move about my day. There is no time frame for grief. It's not three weeks or a month or a year. Grief occurs several times a day. I yearn to hear my brothers laugh or smell his scent as he walks past me. I want to see his wide smile and feel his reliable high-five. It's an interesting dimension- death. You never know what it feels like to lose someone you love until it happens to you. Obviously. And not just a distant cousin or acquaintance or childhood friend. Someone you unconditionally love and cannot fathom your life without. Picture your rock, your person. Now picture your beating heart being yanked out, a chunk removed, and that same heart being placed back into the cavity where your lungs are already struggling to function and your nervous system has been shocked. There's a significant void that will never change. And the world turns, as much as I don't like it. To everyone else, poof, Charley is gone. He's been laid to rest and life is back in session. But to me and my family, life is different. So I'm going to struggle and stumble and move slowly until I gain this strength everyone speaks of. Allow me to be me, please...even if it's my brothers force holding me up.
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