Mourning is a very private affair for me. Much like showing affection in public that goes beyond holding hands or an occasional peck on the mouth. For this reason I chose not to wear black after the death of my stepdad. The other reason was my utmost loathing of all such customs. I find them tedious, outdated and irrelevant. Wearing black so that the neighbours won't have anything to gossip about is the high point of absurdity and conformism.
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| Bled July 2012 |
Since the funeral of my stepdad I have done my very best to dress in my usual (bright, quirky) clothing and trying to keep up the appearance of "bussines as usual". I was petrified of people coming up to me with condolences and accompanying chit chat, quizzical looks and expressions of sympathy.
On the other hand some mistook my behaviour for complete apathy and carelessness.
It was about a week ago that I came to realize his death had upset me far beyond what I'd imagined. A casual conversation with a co-worker sent me into a whirlwind of hysterical crying and all she did was mention what an ingenious gift her son had received for his birthday: a garden gnome.
Since then I've been doing a lot of thinking about the process of mourning, the passing of time and most of all acceptance.
The mere idea of acceptance has me going round in circles. For me acceptance is and has always been the end result of total understanding combined with wholhearted agreement. After my umpteenth attempt to reconcile with my own personal demons I've realized that acceptance is coming to terms with things I disapprove, disagree with but am unable to change.
Afterward I felt like listening to this (it's classic):
