I spent the first night in the new house. It was unexpectedly sad. I think that I expected it to be more exciting, hopeful, uplifting. Perhaps fresh and forward-thinking. Instead, I felt like I was in someone else’s house, or a condo that we’d rented for the weekend. (A lame condo, with no towels or beds, by the way!) The sounds were odd, the smells pleasant but unfamiliar. For a girl who loves an adventure of this type (just think of all the opportunities to organize and redecorate!) it felt pretty scary. I couldn’t stop thinking about how frustrated I was to be moving, basically forced into this. Not by anyone else, but forced nonetheless. My options are to stay in our shattered dream house or move. Period. Moving is the best of the two, and moving to my hometown, surrounded by supportive family and friends, is the best move option, but I still feel forced.

I recently heard that grief feels a lot like fear. Even if you don’t feel scared, it physically feels the same as fear. I wholeheartedly agree. I felt that last night for the millionth time in the past 12 weeks. A pit in my stomach that felt extremely hot or cold, but I couldn’t tell which for sure.  Jittery, senses extremely focused yet in an out-of-body daze. Numb yet feeling everything. What a strange sensation.

Today, I feel strung out and exhausted. Getting back to the old house makes me feel sad, tired, and irritable. Crying is hard work. The good news is that I made it through another crappy section of the grief tunnel and I am still intact. I pray that God will give me a little bit easier section tomorrow and that I’ll hold up like a champ, even if I feel weak and fragile.