I never imagined grief having a sound. Well, it does. From the first moment of my new life, when my brain was in denial and my heart was full of blind hope, my body was screaming inside. You could not hear it, I didn't make a sound, but I was screaming so loud it silenced the world around me.
It has been a constant in my life since. Walking down the street, past a playground, I silently scream until there is no playground. Smiling at friends, lying that I'm ok, I scream until they believe me and relax. In a grocery line-up, stuck between a newborn and a toddler, I scream until I run out of there, tears rolling down my cheeks. Not on purpose, not because that feels good, but because I can't help it.
Thankfully, there are days when those screams come out, when I can't keep it in anymore. Those terrifying animal sounds that come out of me are a relief. If you heard it, you'd probably think I've gone mad. And I have, I mean, I talk to birds and bees as if they are Amelia coming over to say hi, I hug the balloons I bring her to the cemetery, as if I'm hugging my baby. The reality is that, when I seem ok, I am most likely not; when I seem in pieces, I am whole. These bleeding heart screams take me back to the moment I met my angel. That is what it real, what is imprinted in the pieces of my heart, when it was breaking in a silent scream.
I guess it is true, I am a crying bear.