Ok, perhaps there’s one — ‘No Clinging’

No clinging to flotsam to stay afloat on the ocean. It’s all going under eventually…

A shipwreck in a ruthless storm, that’s a pretty good metaphor for my early experience following the death of my soulmate.

I was going to say a ‘killer’ storm, but this storm doesn’t show that much mercy.

I don’t die. Much though (at times) I’d like to. The ocean buffets me around like an orca tossing a seal it has no hunger for — I’m grief’s plaything, a cruel amusement…

“I cannot think too much; I dare not think too deeply, or else I will be defeated, not merely by pain but by a drowning nihilism, a cycle of thinking there’s no point, what’s the point, there’s no point to anything.” — Chimamanda Ngazi Adichie

Grief is oft described as being adrift in stormy waters. Those waves of emotion hammering us; holding us under; sucking air from our lungs; pounding our limbs. Coiling us round in their primal roiling. There’s no sense of the surface, when you’re the toy of the undertow…

But for me, that’s not the whole story.