Wallowing, He said I was wallowing in it. When my mom died and I was unemployed and camping out on my dad’s couch at almost 30 years old, instead of a word of encouragement, my boyfriend said I was wallowing in it. I decided I didn’t need him. That was more than 20 year ago. I was right, and he is gone.
I don’t care for people who refuse to allow me or others the moment to feel our grief, to wallow in unrepentant sadness for our loss, whatever the loss may be. Even the greeting cards know when to say less: I am sorry for your loss; simple, true and elegant. I am sorry. Some people can’t say they are sorry at all. They can’t feel for you. Your grief makes them uncomfortable. And some can’t be sorry, can’t forgive, and can’t let go. But I can let go. I can let everything go; every person, everything. What wasn’t taken from me by now, I handed over in acquiescence.
Daniel, my dear long-ago boyfriend had it partly correct: don’t wallow for too long. Don’t bore the people with your sad stories and tear-filled eyes for weeks- on-end; days maybe, but not weeks. Buck-up and move-on and get-over it; we are a people ready for the next great success story. We ditch those who drag us down.
I don’t want to be a drag. Help me up so I can stop my wallowing.
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