From Quicksand to Quagmire

The early stages of grief are like being trapped in quicksand: You feel like you're sinking, like you're drowning. The slightest move makes you feel like you're being pulled under even faster. The only way to stop sinking is to freeze. You feel completely paralyzed, and completely terrified. 

But as time goes by, it's more like being trapped in quagmire: You can move, but every move takes an enormous amount of effort, like you're fighting against forces that aren't sucking you down, but holding you in place. You're no longer in danger of sinking, but you feel stuck where you are. The effort to move feels like too much, and when you do move, even the tiniest bit of progress leaves you exhausted, mentally and physically. It is so much easier to simply resign yourself to where you are, rather than trying to move forward. 

I was not prepared for the physical exhaustion of grief. Perhaps I feel it more strongly than some, because I have medical issues that are exacerbated by stress. Even nearly a year later, my sleep is constantly interrupted. I can't remember the last time I slept for more than 4 or 5 hours at a stretch. My physical pain is low-level but constant. My anxiety makes me physically tense during most of my waking hours. I am doing more physical labor than I've had to do in the recent past, but instead of building up my endurance, I feel like it is eroding it. It's the level of physical and emotional exhaustion I dealt with when my kids were babies, but without a partner to share the load and encourage me. 

This is not to say that I don't have some triumphs. Mastering a new skill, fixing something around my house, making a dreaded phone call, untangling bureaucratic red tape, all feel like triumphs. But if life were normal, they wouldn't feel like triumphs, they would feel like everyday accomplishments. They would BE everyday accomplishments. They would not feel so overwhelming. 

I crave being whelmed. 

I long for the time when ordinary things are ordinary, not mountains to be climbed. It feels great to climb a mountain; it feels better to not need to climb a mountain. But as long as the mountains are here, I will continue to climb them, even when I'm climbing through quagmire. God sends rain, often in the form of family and friends, that loosens the quagmire, that eases the effort. The quietly extended hands that pull me through when my own energy and motivation have dwindled. My children are loved, clothed, and fed; my bills are paid; my mental health is solid if not ideal. 

It's slow progress, but it's progress. I'm doing okay, it's just not the same okay that it used to be. I'm like a duck: things on the surface look okay, there's just a lot of work going on underneath.