107 / Tales of Ordinary Madness [Exploring Grief]

It seems every two years a dark night comes, something mind-bendingly dark and deep that was never seen prior, never unearthed or before withheld.

I am just exiting one of these such times, and in search of an anchor when my sail tore away in the wind, I flung myself into myself.

I found allies in my community who could hold space for the depths.

I found allies in those who know what spiritual initiations feel like, who know what womb medicine means, who could hold space for trauma and for pain, for the depths of the pendulum swing, for the intensity, visibility, and encouragement.

I found friends who pushed with me against disregard for a woman's healing, pain, and grief, and friends who pushed with me for men to be held to a higher standard.

Those who could understand the abyss of female fury as a reasonable and necessary reaction to painful mental lacerations, spiritual bumps, bruises, and scars that go along with abandonment, grief, loss.

I found all I could to validate me, normalizing my intense emotions when it comes to our bodies.

When the nervous system is affected, the very homeostasis of the body is altered.

I spoke to other women who experienced similar traumas, verifying just how much time it can take to heal.

They shared their harmonious stories and showed me patience, compassion, and love in the brutal understanding.

I kept searching and seeking.

But then, none of this spoke directly to the distinct nature of my suffering.

Trauma found expression in mind seeds that were largely unexplainable, each of them bound by a shared understanding of propriety and my silence.

The erosion dissolved what I thought would never go away, simultaneously peeling open layers that I could never have expected to see.