Acceptance?

I really hate the word acceptance. Loathe actually... I loathe the word acceptance. I loathe the whole "grief process" verbage... the continuum. Denial, anger... blah blah blah. The canning, sterilizing, simplifying, naming, categorizing of grief belittles the bereaved. I hate it. And most of all I hate acceptance. I hate what it implies... I don't accept this. I don't accept anything about this. Acceptance can f-off.

But...

I think I may, maybe, may understand what this horribly named, categorized, assigned place was supposed to mean. Therapists talk about acceptance as if it is a place of resolution, as if something has closed, come together, as if the seams of the gargantuan black hole that was ripped in your soul have closed. Nothing could be further from the truth, NOTHING.

This place that I think acceptance was meant to describe is a place of knowledge. This is a place where I know that there will never be another day when I wake up and see my son. He will never speak his first sentence. He will never say "I love you." He will never start kindergarden, high school, or college. My child has a grave. He doesn't have a preschool class, or friends, or a favorite animal. He has a grave. I know that every single day I will hurt. I will hurt in a way most people can't even fathom. I will walk outside of polite society. The smiling happy faces will always sting. I will always have to make a decision in that split second between "How many kids do you have?" and one of two deeply painful answers. I know... this is my reality. It isn't going to get better.

Is that what they call acceptance?

This isn't closure. This is hell.

Until next time...