grief-and-loss

Being in home is like magic moments, in a magic world, among magicians.

God is a creation of human brain

For me, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is like a good friend. A necessary girlfriend, but with chronic PMS. A temperamental _ and even volatile _ friend who does not play well with others and whom I dearly love. It__ a strange relationship.

I have attempted for years to make fun of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is a dangerous game. It__ similar to poking fun at the largest, scariest bully at your school and assuming you won__ get beat up.

I have become conscious of my own __ry face._ My face puckers like the business end of a hot dog except for my mouth, which stretches in a grimace so wide as to accommodate said hotdog horizontally within it. It__ not pretty.

I realized at that moment that depression and I will always be linked, tugging back and forth, like the drunken uncle who still gets invited to the family reunion even though everyone knows he__ going to make a messy scene.

We will remember what it was like to lose you, our pain the black background of our electric blue joy. We will remember that there are few answers to our questions; the questions that seem to float into an endless expanse of sky.

Starting over is an acceptance of a past we can__ change, an unrelenting conviction that the future can be different, and the stubborn wisdom to use the past to make the future what the past was not.

Don't grieve over the past, It's all gone!Don't worry about the future, It may never come! Live in the present, And enjoy every moment.

When everything looks the same on the outside, yet everything has changed on the inside, we break. We break in half.This is the duality of loss.

To let something go is to participate in a much greater dance that we call life.

She__ lost so much in the process of becoming Zyne, but somewhere in the middle of it all, she__ found herself. Her heritage had shattered her illusions of a tranquil life. Destiny swept behind in a blaze, decimating everything she tried to hold on to. She was left alone, like the solitary tree standing after a forest fire. She__ thought she would crumble to ash, just another memory on the wind. But as blackened pieces of her cracked and fell away, she saw the truth. Under all that charred wreckage was the heartwood. Bruised. Scarred. But still good. Still capable of growth. When she looked in the mirror, she no longer saw a victim, but a survivor.

The loss of a child exploits the emotions of each individual it encounters.

An anchor should be someone who is personally open and willing to communicate.

Loss has no friend, no allies, no benefit to the human spirit.

As an individual, you are entitled to your time of grief, process of grief, and right to grieve.

Finally, only her and Benji and the solitude she craved. But with solitude came feelings. Anger. Hovering between life and death. Wanting one, then the other. Hating Michael. Grieving for him because she'd loved him so. But most of all grieving for Willow until the pain became so great that she welcomed the numbness back as if a long-lost lover.

To speak of __rying again_ while her ghost was still in the room was an insult to both the child gone before and the child that might come after. The child before might be merely a precursor, a practice run, a whole person deemed sufficiently remembered and loved; while the child after might be a bandaid child, a second child, a replacement child. Without time taken to wait _ not until the first child was forgotten but until the hideous burning fire of grief had dulled _ neither child could be fully a person, but just a function of the other.