I just don't know.
And here's the thing: I don't think knowing why would make any difference.
There is a clear line of demarcation that sets Sunday apart from every other day of the week for me. I don't dread the day. Sundays are great. There is rest. It is the one day of the week I allow myself to nap. For those of you who know me, you might recognize how different that fact is from years past. These days I let myself sleep on Sunday alone. Full on, no clothes, sleep in the bed even if I don't feel tired. Somehow, I always crash for a glorious 2 hours solid. Today, in fact, there was even sunshine after a long week of rain and snow. But then the day darkens and the tears come and often it is all I can do to keep trudging along until I can sleep again.
On Sunday I plan. I set aside time after the kids are asleep to plan the week ahead. When will I write? When will I exercise and what will I do for said exercise? I prep meals for the week. I stop.
Maybe it's in the stopping that I feel the grief.
Today, this Sunday in particular, the grief started well before noon. You see, I have a worship playlist on my phone, music that gave me the strength to cry when my dad was so sick and then passed, music that gave me life when one of my own was taken. Today on the way to church, I played that music for the first time since funeral week.
Probably wasn't great timing.
By the time the boys and I arrived at church, the grief was settling like a heavy blanket. It hurt and my fingers tingled and I was hot and it felt like I was seeing the world sideways: a panic attack.
A panic attack that I could not stop in spite of being in a room full of people. I did the things I know to do when panic sets in. I looked for things I could touch. I anchored my body. I did the breathing, but the walls closed in and I had to escape. Thank God for sunshine because the moment I left the church and made my way outside, something settled. I prayed. He answered (God, not my dad but who's to say that my gentle giant wasn't there with me too. I can't say with certainty that he wasn't so I will choose to believe he was with me there too).
Calm came. Until it didn't again.
The bizarre sensations that only those who suffer from panic attacks will understand became my companion this morning.
I'm not quite sure why I'm sharing this with you all. Maybe you are suffering too. If so, you aren't alone. If not, I hope this is a window into grief through which you can see what it might be like for someone you know. Either way, writing about it brings my clarification.
