“I feel like God is a big jerk who gets pleasure from taking things from me.”
The words come out as tears run down my hot cheeks. I am tired, on the brink of depression, and feeling trapped in a space that is suffocating in a city I don’t yet love.
My husband listens. He is there with me in my tears and grief. He is struggling, too.
I repeat the words to my counselor. They are ugly, difficult, but oftentimes feel like so much truth to me.
Some weeks later we open the doors to our POD and a bad dream has come true. We see puddles, smell the scent of mildew and feel cardboard crumble beneath our fingers. Moving to a brand new city, leaving everything we know and love behind has been a kind of hard I never expected. But this is completely out of left field.
We assess the damage. A lifetime of journals ruined. Words poured out to a God I believe hears even when I’m not sure He cares. Art that has been made with hours of love poured out on canvas and layered on paper. Destroyed. It is irreplaceable and unquantifiable.
Today I'm writing on grief over at Kate Motaung's space. It's not pretty. There are no "3 Easy Steps" or other advice for dealing with grief. It is simply honest emotion. Continue reading by joining me there.