I once travelled happily alone. Then the most beautiful thing happened and suddenly I was half of two; two became one. But before I could start to document our life together, his life was tragically gone. My darling Ems is now in the bright lights of Heaven and I remain. This is the story of my journey from here. Gratefully a journey that One whose ways are above all of ours takes with me. One day I'll reach those bright lights for myself but until I do, join me on my journey, keeping memories close.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
I feel quite sick right now. It's not a bug. It's not anything I've eaten. It's a pit of my stomach sick. It's a feeling that comes over me when the emotions build up before they emerge.
They say crying's good for you. It is. Time and time again I've been told by everyone to 'let it out'. In times of intense sobbing it doesn't feel so good. The pain is acute, the familiar sting of tears burns my cheeks like no fire ever could. Yet, there's a peace, quite beyond understanding, that follows those times of heart wrenching emotion; a stillness that overcomes my soul and begs me to be still. I will never get from the undercurrent of bubbling emotion to those pools of tranquillity without first accelerating down the rapids and letting the rivers flow. I really need a good cry right now.
Far more often than any time in the last 10 months, there is a veneer of normality about me. The number of times I expose my emotion daily has decreased considerably; even to those close to me. I now hold conversations about the weather on a frequent basis. We Brits really do always talk about the weather.
I spent 90 minutes after work with a journalist from our local paper. I got choked a few times, yes, but I controlled it. I fought the place within that was crying to get out. Despite the conversation being about our story - the love, the joy, the heartbreak - I got through it without 'losing it'. All the things that stir me most - my beautiful Ems, the way we fell for one another, the way we were with one another, the way I admired him as a person in almost equal measure to the amount I loved him. All these things talked of. Yet no rivers.
I appreciate not making other people feel awkward quite so often. But to bottle it up? I hate this wall that I put up so readily, without even trying to. The 'me' you see is not superficial. I'm not pretending to be anything I'm not. There's just this plug, this seal that I fix so that only the surface is visible.
Mrs Davies' surface can chat with you now. She can joke with you now. She can talk of the weather and other unimportant things. She can notice beautiful sunsets that once were invisible to her darkened vision. Mrs Davies' surface can look to the horizon now, she can thankfully see the beauty of day to day things, she can enjoy the company of her 2 year old niece without always wondering what their own children would have been liked. She can throw herself into her work, even the mundane, without continuously asking what the point of it is. Mrs Davies' surface is quite pleased to be able to eat a large pizza without worrying about putting weight on because the emotion eats up calories like no diet ever could.
And all the while underneath the surface, Mrs Davies, thrilled that her name will forever show that she is Ems' Mrs Davies, aches with a pain that she cannot communicate with the world. It is not because of fear of others that she cannot communicate it. It is not because she cherishes the appearance that she gives. It is simply because she cannot come close to communicating the way that 'this' really feels.
I pile the weight of a mask on top of the overwhelming weight of heartbreak. Yes, the overwhelming weight of heartbreak. I am convinced that the only weight in this world heavier than the weight of a broken heart is the weight of a broken heart without hope of repair. Yes, I do have the hope of repair one sweet day. The overwhelming weight acts as a reminder of that hope - that one day all this will fade - but it's still that, a weight. A weight that threatens to overwhelm. And here am I, fighting it, trying to keep it down, yet needing undeniably, to shatter the veneer for a moment, and let it overtake me.
I am somewhere in the middle. Situated between the springs that bubble away beneath and the calm of the peaceful lake. The sea may look welcoming but the undercurrent is strong.
I am desperately in need of the power that calms the seas to come and calm the waves within.
[Memory #21 the 'rolling waves' episode
As I've mentioned water so much in this blog, I've been taken back to an instance we shared on a team aid / mission trip to Brazil in summer 2008. I am, on the whole, a good traveller. Ems on the other hand felt nauseas quite easily and usually sat in the driver's seat for good reason. On one of our days off during the trip, we embarked on a trip to the coral reef just off the coast of Joao Pessoa. The boat taking us out to the reef was moored just off the shore & we walked, bags on heads, out to it, boarded it and awaited our trip. As we sat in the sun on top of this boat I became increasingly aware of the way the boat was moving with the waves approaching the shoreline. As a simple car journey could often upset Ems, I looked at him expecting him to understand the unsettled feeling I was experiencing, but he simply looked back surprised and somewhat concerned at my expression. He was feeling fine and was almost shocked to be the one not experiencing the motion sickness. He held me close and steadied me as much as possible, reminding me to look at the horizon, and whispering sweet nothings, helping me to rest in his arms. We were soon moving; my head rested in the pit of his shoulders, and soon reached our destination (which was worth it - look at the above photo and see if you can spot the fish). Ems liked to repeat that story any time tales of his motion sickness would come up. He always was so good at pointing out the horizon ahead of us as well as encouraging me to rest a while in the busyness of life. I guess I could do with some of that advice right now.]