Part of the struggle with connecting to joy is the guilt, for even wanting it or considering joy a reasonable possibility or a right? How could we find pleasure when you are finished: never to feel anything again? Somehow I must accept that it is OK for me to live, even though you are dead. That is a tough one.
It is difficult to let go of all the plans, dreams and assumptions I didn’t even know I had made about the future and you being part of it. Morgan, I miss you my sweet girl. We are all trying but this is so, so hard. I say the proper answer when asked, “Yes, I am OK” or even say I’m doing fine. None of us are really fine, OK is a stretch; but we put on a mask everyday. Hoping that, eventually pretence trickles away and it really does start to feel ok.
We are grappling and wrestling with transformation. What an impasse. Reluctant to let go of the lives we were planning to live, but that no longer exist. Unwilling to move into the lives we have been given. Paralysis? Or is it a necessary hiatus that will allow us to grow into theses new skins?
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