The real journey

I haven't yet talked about the internal journey that this trip was intended to be.

Parts are probably still too raw, and like my therapist said, its probably running away from everything.

But it's the running away that I HAD to do. I had to break free (at lest for a while) from the vision of him dead on the living room floor every time I walk into the house. From the constant view of his ashes. From seeing him in the shed, pottering about. From still seeing him on his favourite chair.

These things I needed a break from.

Doesnt mean I haven't been doing all of the things that are supposed to be making it better. Leaning into the pain, feeling all of the feels and grounding.

I do this every day.

But he is still front and centre of my thoughts. Which is only natural.

He's the one I ask the questions to. He's the one I want to tell about all the little laughs and adventures.

So I do. I talk to the little vial of ashes I brought. I take him places, so as he can experience it too.

I hope he can anyway, but just in case...

Then it pisses me off that hes not here. It pisses me off that I have to do all our adventures by myself.

And then I realise that theres a stronger person emerging from the trauma and the grief.

See - stages my arse. Grief and trauma does not follow stages. It ebbs and flows on the daily. On the hourly and sometimes minute by minute.

But what I am beginning to see is a tolerance, a softening, an acceptance.

I can still get sad, still get fucking angry, still be happy and still have fun. It's life. A new one, but its life.