Most days my perspective is good. I accept the fact of Morgan’s murder and find comfort in recalling the many positives we have wrestled from that hideous act.
The Morgan Harrington Virginia Tech Carilion School of Medicine Scholarship
OMNI School Building in Zambia
Help Save The Next Girl Foundation
Familial DNA testing in Virginia
Reviewing those accomplishments usually does the trick and stops my slide into self pity and sadness; but acceptance is hard to sustain. I also have a mental surrender ritual that can sometimes help. I relinquish it all, every part of Morgan I can remember:
Starting with the glorious/alien feeling of Morgan squirming in my belly as she quickened; the baby powder/soap/milky infant smell; toddler starfish fingers clasping fat crayons; school age anxt over mastering the big 2 wheeler bike – soon replaced by 16 year old jitters about driving; and moving away to college, so excited to be independent and proud of your first, and last, apartment.
Then I keep going. I relinquish all the Morgan we didn’t get to have. The flowering of Morgan into adulthood – spouse – children – career; I turn loose of it all, every smidge. And I am empty, but now calm, and that’s a good place; a nice compromise with grief. Next, I fill the empty with busy. Much to accomplish; I must get productive.
This strategy works 90% of the time, until my little determined house of cards is jostled by something, like an anniversary. Three years since your body was found. Then I wobble and go right back down the rabbit hole of anguish. Why Morgan? How could he? Did she suffer? How long? Was she scared, or did the mercy of oblivion come quickly? The nightmare chorus never ends.
I don’t want Morgan photos, or Morgan legacy. I want the REAL, breathing, flesh Morgan here – again. I know. It can never be.
Like Morgan’s childhood 2 wheeler bike ride, I wobble and fall and end up at the beginning, back in the hole of grief. With time it has gotten easier to get up and try again. Looking out at our bird feeder in today’s snow: scarlet flash of cardinal feeding; I see the bird, not spurt of blood. I am grateful.
Wobbly though it is, this is growth.