My many projects might indicate to others that I'm "okay" or "good." Evidence that time heals all wounds. While attempting to create meaning and have an impact (hopefully positive), my forward momentum seems to signify my grief has abated.
On the contrary, while a storm of excitement may be brewing with launch day nearing, neither Nicholas nor Bob ever leaves my mind. Indeed, I think of them more than ever now. Several times daily, I recall that my book and the website housing these blogs are a trade for my son's life. Nowhere near an even exchange.
Every stinking night (notice how I didn't swear just now), I lay in bed and struggle not to think about Nicholas too profoundly, or I won't sleep. Every night I ponder snippets of a film that ended when Nicholas was eighteen, threatening tears every time. So night after night, it takes effort and energy to sleep instead of cry.
Here's the dilemma: a mother wants to think about her children. A mother can't help but think about her children. But deliberately remembering Nicholas stops time for me. I take that back—contemplating Nicholas reverses time because every day moves me one day further from his life. For me, feelings are like water in a gas tank.
You see, finding meaning in what I do (or doing things in which I find meaning) is not synonymous with "okay," "good," "better," or the dreaded "happy." In actuality, all the thinking and doing is to stay one step ahead of feelings, which is damned exhausting.
My point here is that just because people who experience traumatic grief get things done doesn't mean they hurt any less than those that don't get out of bed. Instead, they've learned to keep obstructive feelings far from the energy source, which is illogically exhausting.
So, please appreciate that distressing feelings like grief don't get better or go away. It's that some people become emotional superheroes by learning to manage what might otherwise destroy them.