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My grief went on for years without relief. Thinking about him would bring such horrible anguish that would never fully recede. The stabbing ache inside me would continue. The painful sensation of pins and needles on my flesh would surface again and again; the need to stay mired in that foggy no-man’s land, like the moment between sleep and waking when a vivid dream slides away, one unlikely image at a time.
The suffering of so great a loss would visit me for many years to come. The conditions of our relationship would cause me to suffer entirely alone. I yearned for him for years, still missing him to this very day.
This unresolved grief is still mine alone. When it surfaces, as it does from time to time, it still numbs my spirit, breaks my heart, and drains my veins. Thinking about him sometimes overwhelms me with grief and immeasurable loss. Yet I must remain silent. When engulfed by the pain, it seems as if my losing him was just yesterday. Nothing in my life has changed me more than the love and loss of Anthony. It’s a kind of forever pain that resides deep within me. It’s a suffering of the worst kind. No one else would know how I feel as I had to be alone with my grief. Wanting Anthony to return was sometimes so intense that it stripped me of other desires. Life had no meaning; joy was out of bounds. My mind was filled with intrusive thoughts about death, uncontrollable bouts of sadness, guilt, and regret.
Buried in the neighborhood cemetery, a simple family stone, the only thing left tangible of Anthony’s existence. I’m drawn to this site, during the first few days of July, the time of his birth and death. The religious concepts of the everlasting soul and life thereafter bear no significance to me. But I am drawn to his grave anyway. To talk to him. To ask him why. To wish him peace. To be reassured that he no longer has pain and to be forgiven for not knowing. And then it starts again. The horrible vision of his last moments twisting up inside me. Grieving a deeper hurt than anything ever sustained by the body. A wounded body heals itself, but there is a scar. The same must be true for the soul. It’s the wounding of the soul still not healed. Sometimes