Grief Follows

I recently saw a horror movie called "It Follows".  It's an interesting premise- a sexually transmitted demon (you'll never look at STDs the same way) terrorizes a young girl after an ill-advised tryst with a guy she doesn't know all that well.  The demon can only catch her (and kill her) if she stops moving- so long as she keeps going it moves slowly enough that it can't get her.  If/when it does, she's dead.  Game over.

This seems to work the same way.  When I'm moving- working, stressing about the minute details of reality, keeping up with the demands of daily life- I'm ok.  Genuinely ok.  Functional, professional, responsible.  I keep moving and I'm fine.

But when I stop- when life quiets down, when the world stops moving and I have space to think and feel- I'm caught.  The grief which is always just a couple steps behind me catches up.

It happens in unexpected ways- the fact that the last time I was here I was worrying about getting home.  Home.  Something I no longer have.   A stable base replaced by a strange apartment.

The memory of the way he used to play with my hands- marveling at their size and how small they felt in his.  The feel of him playing with my hands- holding me, laughing with me, loving me.

The picture hidden in that pile of books I can't find a place for.

Ten years of memories.  Ten years of sights, sounds and feelings that go so deep I feel them in my bones.  Deeper than conscious thought.  Deeper than rational timelines and facts- this happened.  So deep that when I get on the mat and dig into my hip I'm only starting to scratch the surface.

And I know- I KNOW- this is normal.  This is how it works.  It's gonna come up, I'm gonna be devastated.  And then, like everything in life, it will pass.  I will breathe again.  Life will move again. I'm not dead, it's not game over- I keep moving.  Until the next time it catches me.  The next time.