Scar Tissue

I imagine most of us--those who live with life-altering loss--have a way to survive from day to day.  There are people who, even after years, still stare into the face of that bloody, angry hole in their heart with no way to look away.  But most of us have coping strategies.  Some work to avoid thinking about it.  Some self-medicate with either legal or illegal drugs.  Some seek out counseling, professional or unprofessional.  Most of us find a way to build scar tissue to block out the pain.  This doesn't mean the wound isn't real, isn't there, isn't painful.  It just means we can live with it without thinking about it every waking hour of every day.  

The nature of scar tissue is it's not as flexible, as supple, as real as the original tissue.  It's not like our loss didn't happen.  Nor does it mean we're necessarily healed of that wound.  Many of us will live our lives still feeling we're one small step from staring into the void and falling apart.  

It's hard to define what healing even is.  Professionals would say being healed from loss means being able to move forward and live life.  That those who have children or remarry, those who engage in life in what seems like a normal fashion, are supposed to be healed.  Some people say that those who are able to look back at their time with their loved ones and the photographs with more joy than sorrow are healed.  They're both good definitions.  I'm never going to be able to have a rainbow baby, though I tried (only to rack up several more losses).  It still hurts more than I can say to look at those pictures in the book I don't see on my wall every day.  To those pictures on the wall, I've build up scar tissue, tissue that lets me look without puddling on the floor in a teary ball.  But when I look at those other pictures, the ones I only trot out on her birthdays and angelversaries, there is no defense.  I am a helpless, mewling ball of agony.  There is more pain than joy.  

Does it mean that I'm healed or not healed that I've built up enough scar tissue that I can move forward in what appears to be a healthy, well-adjusted fashion?  I can function.  I can engage in life.  I can smile.  I can mention my loss in that distant, storytellers' fashion that allows me to say it without feeling it.   But the lava of emotions is there, lurking, waiting for a song or a photo or some other trigger to rip off that scar tissue to expose me to the pain.  Someone expresses real sympathy, and that emotion threatens to bubble up.  The hot tears force their way to the surface.  

I am a dormant caldera like Yellowstone.  I can function in predictable ways like everyone else around me.  But under the surface is a bubbling mass of pain just waiting to show off its heat and agony.  A thin crust of scar tissue keeps up the appearance of peace.  But I don't want to step off those well-beaten paths.  I don't want to step into those tender places that may break through.  I imagine I'm not alone in living with such a fragile peace.  I long for the day I can truly say I'm healed.  But it won't likely be until I hold her in my arms again.