Doesn’t completely go away. The intensity and the depth of the darkness lessens, but it doesn’t subside at the rate we expect, and certainly not at the rate that we want. It’s been my experience that grief, the kind that starts as a hold on your heart that will smash it to pieces on any floor you step, fades into the background but remains true to form when called upon, or not. Only it becomes more of a memory and a time that you can feel without stumbling down the hole that once enclosed you.
I still cry about Abby with regularity. If you don’t know, Abby was my soulmate. She was my child. Had she been human, I could have birthed her myself. She was my first dog of my own, and I got her as an 8- week-old puppy in college. I snuck her into my basement apartment and took her with me to classes, leaving her in the truck with toys and water and blankets, introducing her to the steering wheel as a teething agent and seatbelt holders early on in life. She then went to the farm with me – to every lesson, on every horse, through the woods as a babe and to horse shows in between. She followed me everywhere, and from day 1, if anyone else held her, she’d cry. Like my own child.
Abby taught me everything I need to know about unconditional love, forgiveness, sincerity and generosity. She taught me how soulful a look in the eye could be, even when you were most afraid to give it. She taught me how big a heart can be, even when it begs for cast iron to guard it. She taught me how forgivable a smile can be and a snuggle can nurture, even when your anger is bigger than the initial ask. She taught me how truly special life can be when shared, and that none of us have to go through anything alone should we choose not to.
She was there for me for every big transition until she wasn’t: my graduation from college and into immediate adulthood and business ownership. Through my greatest heartbreak and lost relationship. Through my bouts with bulimia and anorexia. Through my move back to Maryland. Through my changed careers and sports pursued. Through my repeated doubts of self and lack of love for Alison. Through my loneliest days, scariest nights and longest mornings. And through a lot of celebrations and joys, too.
She was always there. I could rely on her cry and her butt wiggle to greet me. I could rely on her moaning when she heard me move before 5AM, her incessant cry to be fed at 7AM and 5PM every day like clockwork, her grabbing a toy to gift me no matter the shape or size or smell of said toy. I could rely on her – period. I could rely on her to come next to me when I fell down on the floor crying in pain and sadness. I could rely on her to comfort me when it was obvious I couldn’t do it myself. I could rely on her to stay close to me in bed all night, trying my best to sleep and stay sleeping. I could rely on her to be remorseful after eating through the trash can when I left her at home for the first time, or after eating through the wall to get to her food a few days later. I could rely on her to know what I needed, sometimes better than I knew myself.
Abby reminds me of the kind of person that I want to be. I have hurt a lot of people in my life, and I lost the excuse of substance a long time ago. I have broken hearts and manipulated feelings and pushed and pulled my way into not being alone for extended periods of time. I have neglected the art of vulnerability and the sacrifice of showing up as I am. I have baited and switched and acted surprised when it blew up in my face. It has been some time since I engaged as monstrously as I have in years past, but for whatever reason I have been thinking of these faces I used to know during those times this morning and Abby came right to heart and mind.
Because she was there. She’s the only one I didn’t push and pull. She’s the only one I didn’t question, barter, or corrupt. I sound harsh but it’s true – I know I damaged people that only wanted the best for me. I know I hurt people that genuinely wanted me to be well. I know I scarred people that are likely OK now, but that took a lot of time to get there.
And I’m sorry. I am sorry for the girl they thought they knew that did those things out of self-torment and deception. I am sorry for the things that girl said to get what she wanted in the moment, unable to pause long enough to take stock in the weight of the words she was using to get it. I am sorry for the anguish and the fury and the battle. There were a lot of great people, and there were less than great ones too. They all deserve the best treatment. No one wants to feel the ash of a broken heart and a stabbing wound. No one wants to feel trodden upon and withered. And many of them did – with and without my help.
Today Abby sits in a box behind my pillow. Whenever I touch it, no matter the time of day, I cry. I cry now as I type thinking about her in that box, and how never in a million years did I envision my baby being left to a box and a golden plaque of a name tag. Never did I envision life without her here, without the dependence on her reliability I so unconsciously and heavily weighted. I honestly didn’t think I’d be able to withstand that life or be strong enough to endure it.
But 2 years later, I can say that she’s given me that reliance back. Bam isn’t as fiercely attached to me, but she has come pretty close in her old years. More than Bam, though, is my own tenacity and want to give myself that kind of love and comfort and support that Abby always did. It’s not always available from my own well, so I have to reach out and ask for some people to help me replenish, but it’s a far cry from when I was pushing and pulling my way around people’s lives a few years ago when Abby was still there to snuggle with me in pools on my floor.