For most people, the word “anniversary” is associated with celebrations and remembrances of happy occasions, but that’s not true for all of us. Sure, I look forward to October and celebrating the day Brock and I joined hands and said, “I do,” but that’s not the type of anniversary I’m talking about today.
I’m talking about anniversaries of major, life-changing events; packed with so much painful emotion, that the date haunts you for the rest of your life. These days are usually the anniversaries of profound losses.
I have a couple of these days every single spring. These woeful specters set up residence in my mind and consume my days, nights and dreams. They’re so powerful, that not just the calendar days effect me, but the months surrounding them are sorrowful, too.
Every February, an ache sets in. Suddenly, like clockwork, I feel as though part of me is broken or missing. A deep heartache emerges and transforms me until the end of April.
I still function, though most of the time, I don’t want to. I have no choice. Regardless of my heartache, I’m still a wife and mother. My family still needs me, just as I need them.
Time passes slower when this anniversary season comes upon me. Days lumber by, accentuating my pain. The clock and calendar seem to mock me as they lazily stroll along.
This season has been my reoccurring living nightmare since 2004 when my angel came and went.
Every year, I give myself a pep-talk in January. I tell myself that I will rise above the ache and celebrate the gift he was, and still is, in my life. And just when I think this year will be the one, the hollowness sets in. The questions run like a never-ending ticker tape in my head. My soul dims and I’m there again.
Reliving the anguish.
Grieving as though the wound was fresh.
Retreating into the safety of silence.
My melancholy anniversary is upon me once again. Random teardrops fall without warning. Emotions rise and fall. My heart breaks all over again.