Grief is a deeply personal experience that can’t really be explained. However, Isobel does a magical job at it. Take pride in your new skin.
It’s funny how grief works; it pushes and pulls to force its way in. But it can be patient too. It lies in wait with baited breath, desperate to get inside. It wriggles and squirms and it sinks its hooks deep. It moves down from the brain, seeping into the bloodstream and paralyses the body. Limbs become lead weights and heartache pins them to the mattress. Blankets keep the body warm but the grief inside turns the blood too cold. Eyeballs burn and itch as they shine, dripping salt-water until the dam has run dry.
The road to recovery never seems to grow shorter; a constant uphill, the twists and turns are all met with dead ends. It’s persistent and raw, always under the surface. It slowly sinks deeper, settling close to the heart. It is a wound that never quite closes but one day you wake up and proud flesh is now growing.
Words by Isobel Logan.
Image by William Hill.
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