Werewolves cry, too.

It’s quite amazing that a human can seemingly produce tears to infinity. You’d think you’d dry out, but I haven’t yet. I seem to actually run out of energy to cry before the tears dry up.
The waves of emotion have been wider lately, that is, a spaces of time exist between the bottomless sadness that are now longer than they were before. Perhaps it’s healing, perhaps it’s resigning to the fact that he isn’t coming back. Perhaps it’s giving oneself to grief and the fact there will always be underlying sadness in life. Although the swells are wider apart, the punctuations of bursts are no less intense.

The one thing about the spells of deep, dark sadness that remains consistent is the sound. Not the sound of sadness, but what the sadness and loss does to us.
The wailing. Or as one person in my group might have said, the Whale-Ing

Where do these sounds come from? We wondered if each other did the same thing. It turns out we do. We produce some spectacular sounds in our grieving.
I compared my grief growls to a werewolf. I feel it sounds artificial because it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from me. It’s an absolute raw cry. There’s no Hollywood style single tear and quivering lip. It actually doesn’t sound like crying at all.
Another says she sounds like a whale, with pinpoints of super high screeching between uncontrollable sobs.
One sobs almost silently, barely catching her breath between gasps. A wheezy vacuum cleaner.
We all cry.
If you experience this kind of loss, the loss that only suicide brings, you must cry. You can’t hold that hurricane inside of you.
Let it out.
Let it rage and fly around the room. It will subside eventually, and perhaps start up very quickly, but one day, you might not have as frequent outbursts. Maybe.
Then maybe, you might actually have a good day. Hard to believe, but you just might be able to control your weather, to harness your hurricane, tether your tornado. Live a little bit of life.

One day, you’ll hear different sounds coming out of your being. Perhaps a laugh? I recall my first laugh after he left and it scared the hell outta me. What the heck was there to laugh at in this world? I remember signing to the radio. I stopped myself as soon as I realized what I was doing. I was ashamed of enjoying something.
I recall my first “oooooohhh” at something beautiful, a wee spring bulb in our garden. I wanted to go get John to see it with me. Then wanted to bury the flower under the dark dirt again.

I still hear the scream I let out when I found my love, too late, that terrible night. That night we lost our Behr. I’m sure my neighbours do, as well. I hear it and know it’s still brimming inside of me, along with my werewolf cries.
I think those sounds will always be there, but now I think they can be muted and stand in the shadow of better things. Of sweeter sounds.
One can only hope, because this sadness can be deafening.

Gotta run.

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