Journaling opened up wounds. Each time I journaled, tears flowed as if I were caught in a torrential downpour. It didn’t matter to me. I let them flow with each word I wrote. Here is an excerpt from my first journal on how I felt when Babe died.
“Babe’s death knocked me down to the depths of new sorrow. Like a badly beaten boxer, I am in a semi-conscious state trying to grab hold of my opponent before he pummels me with both fists and sends me to the canvas hoping I’ll stay down. I wait for my mind to clear. I wait to regain my strength to continue the fight against grief. In my dazed and befuddled state, I see Babe’s presence and touch everywhere. She was my life, she is my life, and her absence is devastating. My knees wobble and my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti. I struggle to keep going, holding on to the ropes to prevent me from falling again to the canvas as grief continues to deliver hit after hit to my heart.”
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Excerpt From: Dancing Alone: Learning to Live Again by Ray Calabrese. This material is protected by copyright