Drained

I feel so drained. Every cell of my body is exhausted. It’s partly because we had a substitute yoga instructor this week and he was brutal (my muscles are still hella sore from Monday night’s class) and partly because sleeping has been nearly impossible again.

But it’s also this heaviness permeating every part of me. I feel it in every movement and every breath. It’s as if there are weights attached to my organs, dragging me downward. It’s resting behind my eyes and nestled inside my ribcage.

I thought I would be more cognitively active in the aftermath of this loss. But it seems I’ve been primarily experiencing it in a very visceral way. Not too surprising, considering much of my trauma is stored in pockets of blackness within my own physical body.

I can’t access it. I can’t get to the darkness and pull it out. It’s just stuck there, weighing me down.

I try to use reason and logic to claw my way out of this uncomfortable and strange physical sensation, but it doesn’t work. I don’t think it’s supposed to. I think I may just have to let my body process this in its own way.

Losing Zooey activated some serious trauma points – some things I am not even consciously aware of (yet). But parts me know. This is their story, too. And I can feel their devastation.

Perhaps the heaviness is their way of telling me to slow down. To sit with them. To be present. To let go of the need to feel better for a while and just let the system grieve, each in their own way. It is certainly uncomfortable, but I need to remember that their needs are important, too. I need to listen.

But I am always so afraid of what they will tell me. Maybe the exhaustion comes from pushing back what needs to come forward?

Or maybe I just need one fucking night of decent sleep.

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