Waiting for Light

 I'm well aware that life can always get worse. No matter how dark the days are, the darkness can always get darker. So I try not to dwell on all the crap things going on and move through life thankful for what is not bad. A count your blessings mentality, if you will. But some days, man...some days as I sit in my grief and try not to think about all I've lost or what and who is missing from my life my emotions get the better of me.

This morning, not long after I got to work, I sat at my desk and cried because my coworker and I are being moved from our semi-private office to an open area with four-foot high cubicles and 30 other employees in August or September and I don't want to move. I like my semi-privacy. I like the quiet. I like that my desk is tucked into a corner and I don't really see anyone while I'm at my desk. The thought of being in a big open room with four-foot high cubicle walls fills me with anxiety. So I sat at my desk and cried about something that is slated to happen in three months.

I immediately felt silly and stupid because, you know, there are people out in the world who are really suffering. People who are ill, or homeless, or struggling in abusive relationships. People who've had their whole lives ripped apart.

But then I remembered...I'm one of those people. I've had my whole world turned upside down. I've lost three of the souls who loved me the most in this world in the span of two years. I'm lost and feel alone and abandoned. And in all this loss, I'm having to deal with all the paperwork and phone calls and emails that come with closing out someone's life. I'm calling lawyers and chancery clerks and tax assessors and digging through a lifetime of documents hidden in my family home. 

And the business of it all keeps me distracted during the day because as long as I'm worried about the legalities and paperwork, I don't have time to think about all I've lost. And if I don't have time to think about all I've lost, I can make it through the day without falling apart.

Until I sit in the early morning quiet at work and cry over not wanting to move offices. Which, yes, the feelings of anxiety are real, but even I know I'm not really crying about moving offices. I'm mourning the loss of the things and people I loved. I'm mourning the loss of the life I had in 2019 when both my parents appeared healthy, I had the prospect of an exciting new job, and the world seemed as though it was full of promise and joy.

I don't recognize my life anymore. I go to my dad's house to feel his presence but he's not there. I brought his dog, Milo, home with me and it feels strange and foreign to have him there. I find myself talking to him as though he's Libby but quickly remember that he's not her. She's gone, too. I look through filing cabinets at my parents' house and wish I could ask my mom where something is--she was the keeper of all the documents--but she's not there. 

I spend time with my sisters and all we can seem to talk about is how lonesome we are for our parents. How none of this seems real. How we cry at the oddest moments and can't seem to wrap our heads around the fact that life as we knew it is over. How we were supposed to be old when we lost our parents. How unfair it all feels.

Looking ahead to the future, I can't imagine it. I can't picture my life in five years. Two years. Or even six months. Where will I be? Who will I be? Who else will I lose? And how much more can I survive?

I know, realistically, that people survive catastrophic loss all the time. I know there are paths to getting through grief and devastation. Life does go on and evolves into something new. I will never have the life I had in 2019 again but I will have a new life. I'm scared to think it could ever get better because I fear I will perpetually be disappointed. But I know that as dark as things appear now, someday, God willing, I will see some light again.