Death By A Thousand Cuts
Dear Rachel,
I’ve been searching for a way to describe how this feels, but I’m not sure I have the words for it.
Things are a bit better now than when you were first killed. I no longer spend all of every day in agony, crying or on the verge of tears. (At first, I cried so much that crying came to feel normal. Not crying felt odd.) Now, coming up on the six-month anniversary of your death, I find that I can get through most of the day (most of the time) without too much pain.
That’s not to say I don’t think of you. I think of you always. There’s not a moment when you’re not on my mind, even if it’s just on the periphery of my consciousness while I’m working on an article or speaking with a friend or colleague. But that constant, deep-seated ache with which I had become so very familiar is no longer present all the time.
At first I thought of describing it as a rollercoaster. I can be feeling OK, just sort of vaguely sad, and then—out of nowhere—comes that kick in the gut. It’s not that I suddenly realize that you’re gone; I always know that you’re gone. It’s that the enormity of what’s happened abruptly strikes me. The sudden pain takes my breath away, as I realize—deep down inside—that my little girl was murdered, really murdered, shot dead for no damn good reason. (As if there could've been a good reason.) And it strikes me again, full force, that I’ll never again hear your voice. It’s enough to crush a man.
But describing it as a rollercoaster isn’t particularly apt. For one thing, rollercoasters are fun; people ride them on purpose. (Not me, mind you, but some people.)
This is more like an ancient Chinese torture, really: líng chí, death by a thousand cuts. Each memory slices into me, each realization that you’re really gone takes another piece of me, until eventually it feels like there’s nothing left and I’m left feeling emotionally flayed.
Love,
Dad
I’ve been searching for a way to describe how this feels, but I’m not sure I have the words for it.
Things are a bit better now than when you were first killed. I no longer spend all of every day in agony, crying or on the verge of tears. (At first, I cried so much that crying came to feel normal. Not crying felt odd.) Now, coming up on the six-month anniversary of your death, I find that I can get through most of the day (most of the time) without too much pain.
That’s not to say I don’t think of you. I think of you always. There’s not a moment when you’re not on my mind, even if it’s just on the periphery of my consciousness while I’m working on an article or speaking with a friend or colleague. But that constant, deep-seated ache with which I had become so very familiar is no longer present all the time.
At first I thought of describing it as a rollercoaster. I can be feeling OK, just sort of vaguely sad, and then—out of nowhere—comes that kick in the gut. It’s not that I suddenly realize that you’re gone; I always know that you’re gone. It’s that the enormity of what’s happened abruptly strikes me. The sudden pain takes my breath away, as I realize—deep down inside—that my little girl was murdered, really murdered, shot dead for no damn good reason. (As if there could've been a good reason.) And it strikes me again, full force, that I’ll never again hear your voice. It’s enough to crush a man.
But describing it as a rollercoaster isn’t particularly apt. For one thing, rollercoasters are fun; people ride them on purpose. (Not me, mind you, but some people.)
This is more like an ancient Chinese torture, really: líng chí, death by a thousand cuts. Each memory slices into me, each realization that you’re really gone takes another piece of me, until eventually it feels like there’s nothing left and I’m left feeling emotionally flayed.
Love,
Dad
posted by Rod at 4:34 PM
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