Last week was Seanna’s birthday. She would have been 16. 16 and most certainly not sweet. *smile* We loved her dearly for that gorgeous wildness. Truly, Seanna was the Wild Woman I want to be again. I was overly optimistic about the day not being difficult for me, for us. We didn’t celebrate her birthday grandly mainly because she didn’t understand that particular marking of time. It meant nothing to her. As far as she believed she had always existed and so had we. But this year it meant everything to me. Just everything. I completely fell apart and haven’t quite done up the seams yet. I miss her so much I feel sick to my stomach. I dissolved into tears and they flow still.
Grief is not like a broken arm; it does not heal in six weeks. There is no cast, and if there were certainly the heart and soul would not be made whole again within six weeks, able to bear the weight of daily living. No. There is something interesting about that six week mark though. I stayed in bed about that long after she died and only at six weeks did the tears and pain crash over me. A week since her birthday, I’ve not been out of my pyjamas for two days now and am nearly to the bottom of my second bucket of ice cream. Bucket, darlings, not “bowl”. I keep Clarissa’s “Women Who Run With Wolves” nearby and dip into every few hours. She’s writing this for women *exactly* like me and there is so, so much to digest. So much that is difficult. I can’t concentrate for the pain it brings to the surface.