I had a rough weekend. Even 16 months after my sister died, I sometimes have days where I miss her so much that I have to have a good hard cry, my heart all twisted up like a wrung-out towel.
It's not one of those things that is easy to tell people. They start to worry about your sanity and to suggest pharmaceutical help.
"But I don't want drugs," I'd like to say. "I just need the resurrection of my sister!"
I spent Saturday afternoon at the Amnesty International write-a-thon, writing a dozen letters on behalf of people imprisoned for the non-violent expression of their basic human rights.
I wrote to Presidents and Ministers of Security about people who had been thrown in jail for speaking their minds, for protesting societal ills, for being related to the wrong person.
As I wrote, I thought about how lucky I had it, living the cush life here in the United States. I thought about how I should count my blessings and be happy.
Then I came home and sobbed again for another few hours. Grief is SO unreasonable.
I'm not looking for sympathy. It doesn't do any good, anyway, much as I hate to say it. I thought about not writing this post, but I decided every time that I think I really shouldn't write a post and then I write it, it turns out I'm really glad I did because someone out there really needs to hear it.
Grief feels like a not-fun rollercoaster. Somehow we end up on the ride and as soon as we get on, we aren't in control of where it goes. We just have to hang on as best we can until it's over.