I took a break.
I haven’t written since March. Life took an odd turn. I went to more funerals than I care to remember. I made more complicated decisions than I ever wished I had to take. I witnessed more layoffs than I am capable of handling. I fought back more tears than I care to count. Grief has an odd way of expressing itself, even more so when you’re diagnosed with bipolar disorder. It is one of those emotions that has a life of its own. It carries every feeling within it; sometimes, there’s no way to discern it. Even worse, grief is as much physical as it is emotional. You feel heartbroken like there is a hole punched in your chest. You feel heavy, like there’s a giant weight on your shoulders. You feel like your legs are weak and shaking from trying to stand after someone pulls the ground from underneath you. It’s hard to breathe because the wind has knocked you out. The first couple of months, I just tried to get by. I did the motions. I nodded and shook my head at the appropriate times, ensuring I showed up each day and did the work. I became more productive than usual. I was like a machine. In the darkest moments, I convinced myself that if I kept going and moving forward, I would not have to feel the pain I carried in my heart. My therapist held space for me and kept asking me what I needed. But I didn’t know what I needed. It was only months later that things started to change. Slowly, very slowly, I learned to slow down. Just showing up, even if it meant showing up broken. It worked magic. I danced on top of 2,000-year-old ruins, and a sense of trust and groundedness emerged between all the crying and cringing. And occasionally even joy. I re-established contact with myself by slowing down, which helped me process my feelings while moving, breathing, sensing, rooting. I've learned a few things, one of which is that everything takes time. The right amount of time. And the right moment in time. We can’t control what happens, but we decide how to respond. Grieving or any other emotional process is held inside a very personal timeline. My typical strategies, which had been effective in some prior situations, were no longer effective. My gut advised me to have patience with myself, let things happen naturally, and let time work its magic. I feel more grounded, more rooted. I am vulnerable yet able to access power from my rootedness. Gentleness, slowing down, and emotional transparency are priceless gifts. We all struggle. Whether it is visible or hidden, acknowledging this struggle grows compassion for ourselves and for others. When we slow down, we make space for this acknowledgment: we make space for the subtle inner voice of wisdom to teach us. We make space for growing, compassion, and healing. I learned along the way that grief is not something you heal from. When you lose someone or something (a relationship, a job, a house.), you carry that around with you forever, and it becomes a part of you. Grief can mold itself into something beautiful that reminds you of your strength and capacity to love and be loved. I've learned to trust the cycles of life. Just as the universe follows its rhythms, so does our heart. There are moments of stillness where the world seems to stand still, and grief consumes us. But, like the sun that always rises, there is a natural ebb and flow to our emotions. Even in the darkest of nights, dawn is inevitable. Trusting in these cycles can provide solace, reminding us that even in our most profound moments of grief, healing and hope are never out of reach.
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AuthorI was born in 1986 in Lebanon. I'm still trying to find my passion in life and in the meantime I'm learning to navigate my bipolarity and redefining stability. Archives
February 2024
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