That door. Somedays, it is the barrier between us and moving forward through grief. It keeps us from the world outside, from obtaining happiness inside, from moving in forward in time. It's as if our very step outside that door is a symbol of us leaving our angels behind. On the other side of that door is the unknown - what will people ask, what will we see, will we tumble and need to find shelter?We stare at that door, we tilt our heads, we shrug our shoulders, and give up. I have stood with the door open, standing on the frame- the tips of my toes teetering - hoping someone would push me through the magical barrier that keeps me from enjoying life...just outside that door.After Matt and I got home from that fateful ultrasound, we discussed a lot of things. I'd had a history of severe depression and anxiety and we were both worried of how the death of our daughter would affect me. One of the hardest things for me when I was in the midst of those emotional issues was to go outside. I was *safe* inside. So together we made the decision that I should get out of the apartment every day for at least 15 minutes, even if it was just to go sit on the grass outside and read in the sunlight.
It's amazing how hard it can be though. And I've *never* lost the feeling of people watching me.
i feel the same way. home is safe, outside is scary (and sometimes it feels like i am the gigantic elephant in the room, that everyone is staring out, and looking straight through all at the same time). i have said it many times that if i didn't force myself out of my house everyday, i could easily become agoraphobic. sometimes with the ptsd from my multiple losses it is still a very real fear. good for you for getting out there, i know how hard it can be.
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