Lean

Three weeks after having left her previous employment, Herself is still adjusting to her unmooring.  She knew, intellectually, that there would be a certain amount of  adjustment to make as she changed pathways.  For some reason, though, she wasn't quite prepared to tackle the grief. (I suppose no one quite knows how a significant change will feel until the change itself happens.)  It's been trickier than she thought it would be.

Sorrow creeps up when she least expects it -- while she's brushing her teeth in the morning, while in the car while out running errands. She's unwilling to give the feelings full flight, even though she suspects that a good cry might help; the grief is still embedded too deeply, like a tiny splinter that isn't ready to work its way to the surface yet.  Relief is not yet available. The wound needs more time.

She finds herself wanting consolation, and yet not knowing how to seek it. She is strained and easily frustrated; her energies are expended in adjusting, and she has little left to extend her usual patience and tolerance toward others.  She wants to be with her Safe People, even though she can hardly stand to be with herself. Oddly, she would like to lean on them, actually physically lean on them, to feel their solidity and their presence, to derive strength from their strength. It's inappropriate, though, to intrude upon their personal space in such a manner; her need for physical proximity does not trump their right to spatial autonomy. Therefore, she refrains.

She suspects, too, that they don't -- can't -- quite "get" what she's experiencing. Their days have marched onward as usual while Herself has undergone a tremendous alteration of her life path, and there's absolutely no way for her to explain exactly how she feels.  There just aren't enough of the right words.

She sees that people are trying to be kind to her, even though she's currently unusually obtuse, scatterbrained, and fatigued, and she is simultaneously grateful to them and angry at herself. So pathetic, so needy, pull yourself up by your bootstraps already! says the tiny voice in the back of her head -- and then it continues, but first just hold me for a minute.  Poor tiny voice, so sad and contrary. It will be OK, tiny voice.

This too shall pass, she knows. In time, her grief will wash away. The stream of life flows onward, and she will see where it takes her. In the meanwhile, though, she hopes that her Safe People will forgive her for leaning just a little bit -- both metaphorically and literally -- from time to time. She finds it very helpful.

Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Picture copyright 2014, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.