Self protection, it can manifest in many ways. The self protective barrier that insulates me is rather harsh. I’m a pusher. I insulate. I withdraw. I torture myself. The pain I inflict on myself, mentally, physically, is at my hand, not someone else’s. That is my control.

Woven in with my sunny smiles has always been a dark ribbon. My mind rarely slows. And as much as I can see the beauty in things, I can also see the pain. I can push it away, or I can absorb it. That doesn’t make me broken, it makes me different. Everyone is different. And everyone manifests grief in a myriad of ways. My more extreme methods are just that, extreme. And two weeks ago, I was extreme.

The sound of the immune system of my soul engaging began with breaking glass. I hurled the photo across the room. With that, my focus was engaged. Remove all traces. Pack it up. Don’t look. Don’t think. Don’t stop moving. And I did not until I was exhausted and everything was in a pile. Photos, letters, notes, cards, presents yet to be finished, trinkets from trips, decorations, clothing… all of it, into the pile. And after I was spent from the physical and emotional exertion someone else packed it all away for me. And I slept. Finally.

I have walked and jogged dozens of miles in the last two weeks. I have talked to people. I have written pages and pages in my journals. And I feel better. I am more angry than sad. More bewildered than hurt. And more understanding that it isn’t just me. I’m on the mend. I’m not 100%. I’ll always have scars. The physical ones are obvious. The emotional ones are there behind my smile.

Nearly two weeks later when I finally let myself look at a photo, I didn’t feel quite so raw. My eyes only leaked a little. I could still breathe. I let the ebbing and flowing pain wash over me as it comes.

I keep on moving.