A shattered heart, still beating
Today marks eight years since his heart stopped beating. And in that very same moment, my own heart shattered into a million pieces. Remarkably, my shattered heart still beats… though I don’t know how that is possible, as a part of me died at that same moment, too.
But only part of me died that day; the rest of me was left here on Earth to grieve. Grieve, and live. Live, and laugh. Laugh, and survive.
And yes, despite this grief that still lives within my shattered heart and aching soul, I am surviving and I am living a fairly happy life. No, it is not the happy life I thought I would live. And, no, it is not a life that’s as happy as it should be. But it is a life of sorts, and it is a life that I value.
Somehow, I make it through each day. And most of the time those days are filled with more happiness than sorrow; more laughter than tears.
But sometimes, the grief is harder than others because, some days, the loneliness that grief brings is so great… most often, those days are the days when I need someone to hold me the most. That’s when I realise that there isn’t anyone to hold me; there isn’t someone to wrap their arms around my and comfort me as I cry. That was his job; that was Paul’s job.
And so, when I’m feeling my most vulnerable and lonely—when my grief surfaces because of the stress of loneliness; when I need to be held more than ever—I am left to remember once again that I walk this world alone now. And that’s when the pain of this shattered heart hurts the most.
But my shattered heart still beats. And the pain seems less these days. Less, but never fully gone.
Don’t cry for me though, I do enough crying for myself. But, thankfully, I do my fair share of laughing, too.