Good Grief 2

The other side ...
Of the bed
I love it and hate it
I rarely venture over to the other side, it is the dead zone. It offers little comfort. To venture over heightens what is no longer there, it telescopes the loss with a visceral wrenching of the gut - all the insides become outside. I am sure I will return to the physicality of grief at another time - it is so hard to separate out all the elements of the maelstrom of what can be felt in a moment that it can lead to a paralysis and a withdrawal from trying to explain any of it ...which, in turn, leads to a retreat and feeling of alienation - so, for now, I will stick to task ...
The other side has become a place for books, and 'stuff', anything, anything at all, that I struggle to read and dip in and out of. The butterfly effect, flitting from thing to thing, hoping for something to hold my attention, hoping for something that can achieve the seemingly impossible, something that will help to bridge the yawning chasm between me and the world. You will notice the electric blanket. I never feel warm now. I never feel comfort. I go to bed when I am exhausted and these days sleep mostly, thankfully, but wake exhausted and with the sickening realisation that I have woken, yet again, and have to face another day of construction. Each day feels like Ground Zero and requires doing it all, all over again, with a Sisyphean relentlessness.