Grief VS Mourning

A few weeks after Sterling died, I read a psychologist’s explanation of the difference between grief and mourning. I’ll do my best to explain it. It goes something like this:

Grief is the way you feel about losing your child. It’s the earth shattering, heart-wrenching, spirit crushing pain that you are now tasked to live with for the rest of your life. The kind of unimaginable pain that no words are ever strong enough to describe and that no parent is sure they’ll be able to survive.

Mourning is the outward expression of grief. The way your tears are the first thing you see in the morning and the last thing you see at night. The way you stay cooped up inside your house, unable to move because even the effort it takes to breathe is too overwhelming.

I used to use the words interchangeably. But this text completely changed my view and soothed me immensely. Before, I thought it would be this bad forever and that was a horrible thought. Will I really spend the rest of my life in this much agony? Will I really go to bed every night shocked and grateful that we survived another day? Only to wake up every morning distressed and dreading that I would have to do it all over again?

Then again, I truly didn’t want this to get easier. The thought of that was even worse. It wouldn’t be right. Sterling deserves to be grieved intensely. Like every other child gone too soon, he’s too precious, important, and too loved for me to be anything other than completely destroyed by his loss.

But when I learned to separate grief and mourning, it brought me peace and hope.

Grief is unending and unchanging. The pain of this loss will never get any easier. I will carry it with me, wherever I go, every second of every day, until the day that I die and am reunited with my son. But the mourning process? THAT is what changes. Of course, I will mourn him every single day, but the way I mourn won’t always be this bleak. It will one day become a little lighter to carry, at least on some days. I haven’t quite made it to that point, but I know there are brighter days ahead. And the best part is- every day that passes is another day closer to heaven.

Time Doesn’t Heal – 2 months down

“Time heals,” they say. Well, they’re wrong.

I keep waiting to feel a tiny bit better, for time to make it a bit easier. But the further away we get from December, the more it hurts.

62 days since I held you, since I last kissed your face.

Right now, it feels impossible to survive, like I will literally die from a broken heart.

Sometimes, I can wrap these words up in hope. Wrap this grief up in a neat little package and tie it with a bow, with the promise of heaven. I know we’re one day closer to heaven. I get it. And I’m grateful for it.

But there are moments when the darkness swallows me whole and the best I can do is just to feel. To give myself a break from searching for silver linings and just allow myself to hurt. So, I’ll sit here in this grief until I’m ready. And when I am, I will muster up every bit of strength I have and crawl back into the light.

2 months since I kissed you goodbye and I am hurting more than ever.

I love you, sweet boy.

Drowning

Dear Sterling,

You died one month ago today. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, but most of the time, I just wonder how we’ve all survived this long without you. 

Time crawls by so slow, it feels like I’ve already lived a lifetime without you.  This moment was one of the most excruciating, but still somehow incredibly peaceful. You were gone.

Your physical body was here with me, but you had already crossed over into paradise. There was no amount of time that would’ve been long enough. I knew no matter how long I chose to spend holding your little body, it would just never be enough.

Even with all the pain this moment brought me, I would give anything to go back to this moment. Even just for a minute, to feel the weight of you on my chest again.

They say grief comes in waves.  Right now, I’m drowning.

I love you, forever and ever.