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What Now?

You’ve survived the unthinkable, an act so devastating, so devious, and so far-reaching that you’d never entertained the thought or possibility that such a thing could happen to you. You’ve tried your best to shield yourself from the truth, to run from what is inescapable. You’ve closed the door on reality, and any path that may have taken you there. Yet, the truth is the truth and the truth is the light, as you’ve heard people say as long as you can remember. “The truth is the light, Baby,” your grandmother used to pronounce. You didn’t understand it then; you don’t understand it now, nor do you care.

It happened, that you can’t deny. It happened. Now, what? Now you suffer!

You can’t even refer to yourself in the first person, singular pronoun “I.” “ I” now identifies herself as “you,” whoever she is. That hurts too bad and you fear that level of pain is unsustainable. There’s no solace in the lyrics, “it hurts so bad.” Mostly, you’re mute. As days go by, with the unrelenting predictability of a crippled turtle, you remain a mime on the outside while inwardly you scream like you imagine that crazed “Screaming Meemie” from the cartoons did decades
ago. Believe it or not, you try to connect with something that tethers you to some vestige of reality. You can’t. The obscenity of it all is that you appear normal as if you’ve returned to the real world with an aplomb that looks normal.

To whom do you turn? Where is your “Balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole”?. You’re not a “sin-sick soul.” Wounded, yes. Heart-sick, to the core. Emotionally bereft, yes. Lonely, you betcha. Tossed and turned like the waves during hurricane season, to put it mildly. Hopeless, undeniably. Words that can’t describe the torment of loss, without a doubt. Inexplicable loss, a million times yes. Where is your Balm?

Now what?

You grapple with the unspoken expectations of those who knew you before. You imagine what they think when they see you now. You wonder what the two or five of them talk about when they might accidentally end up in one place. Does their conversation open with, “Have you seen her recently? How was she? How long has it been? That long?” You wonder how long it takes before someone mercifully changes the subject. How long is long? You wish you could say something to make them feel better. You wonder if they know how much you wish you could say the magical words that would relieve them of their discomfort. How you long to make them feel better. Even though you know they never could fathom your pain or how you’re struggling, struggling, struggling, or their impatience for that matter.

Yet your loyalty remains to and with your Loved One who now resides in a different universe, someplace you still aren’t convinced actually exists. Does she really have a home in a beautiful kingdom? Does she? Mainly, you don’t know where to put your anger, denial, and a whole slew of senseless questions. Now what?