The year my father died was one big blur for me. I slept most of the time. My waking hours were spent fighting against the onslaught of my thoughts. Luckily, I kept a journal. That action at least gave those thoughts a small release.
The first month after Daddy’s funeral, if my husband and I went to the grocery store, he kept the list and pushed the buggy because I would stop in the middle of the aisle and would just stare at nothing. Lost in thought, I was like a walking zombie.
Going on long walks—something that usually relaxed me—was out of the question. Before Daddy’s suicide, I did my best thinking when on a walk; after his death, I was racked by pains of guilt and sadness when I went. Crying at the thought of my father’s last few days, I would lose my breath and have to sit on the ground.
I signed up for a yoga class and went only one time. During the end of the class when we were supposed to surrender to the quiet and let our minds and bodies relax, I was overcome with grief and started crying.
I think when you love someone, and you lose him or her, it rips a hole in your soul. That was how I felt when I lost my father—as if my soul had cracked wide open.
Exhaustion was my body telling me I needed rest. My soul needed as much mending time as my body would have if I had lost an arm or a leg.
Fatigue is the result of a soul’s injury. Give yourself time to heal. Take it easy.