Some days are harder than others
It was a year in Feburary, and I think I have been holding off dealing with it. I just miss that place so much and It pains me today more than usual.
@lilredpanda01 Sometimes, we put off dealing with something to avoid going through the pain of doing so, but then we get reminders that make it very clear how much work we have to do. And those reminders can become more frequent, and more insistent, until we act on the source of the pain. Was there something specific that happened today, for you to be feeling the pain more intensely than usual?
@DemiMondaine You're right, I think today was just one of them days, I also don't like mothers day because I lost mine to abandomnent a long time ago and that was yesterday so, guess I've just been stressed. But I am in therapy so I am glad that will be tomorrow
@lilredpanda01 Mothers Day can be very challenging indeed to anyone who's lost their mother through bereavement or abandonment. Days like that throw our losses into such sharp relief, where all we feel is sad and stressed on what should be a celebratory day. I'm hoping here that therapy goes well for you tomorrow.
Forecast: Grief, 90% Chance They didn’t warn me grief was a dowry. Passed not in death, but in silence— folded into prayer rugs, steeped in chai and unspoken shame. My kin wove storms into their veins. They smiled through deluges, built homes on quaking earth, taught me survival is a dry face. I thought grief needed a spark— a grave, a farewell, a slammed door. But that’s a foreign tale. Here, grief is ancestral. It flows through wombs, seeps into the lentils we share, whispers before we can speak. We don’t mourn people— we mourn what might’ve been. The father whose hands were cold. The mother whose prayers drowned her questions. The dreams stitched with guilt’s thread. Grief isn’t a wound—it’s breath. Unseen. Ever-present. We laugh, we climb, we dazzle. But at night, the monsoon comes. Boys like me don’t weep. We clench jaws. We shout. We fade. We write in secret or choke in it. The forecast holds steady: Torrents. Blurred horizons. Flood risk in the throat. Grief, 90% chance. Hope? Fleeting. Yet I write. Not to dry my soul, but to stand, soaked, and be seen. If you read this, you’re wet too, aren’t you? Tired of feigning sunshine. Let’s stand in this downpour— no shields, just us, unashamed