His question brings up so much self-doubt and shame over her own weakness that she has to look away from him again. The full truth - I haven't really moved on. - is more nuanced than she thinks is helpful here, so she has to think about how to answer. How does she explain the complex nature of coming to terms with something but not fully letting it go when she's never actually settled on answer for herself?
"Time. Feeling grief and pain for more days than I can count. Talking about it with others. Accepting that what I'd done was done and that I'd never allow anything to change it. Reminding myself... that I can have hope about those I left behind, that their lives are everything I was seeing in my dreams and more." She reaches up to pull her fingers through her hair pin to ground herself and exhales a shaky breath. Hearing the musical sound it produces helps soothe her anxiety, but it also reminds her of a moment that was more important than many others when she was still dealing with the worst of the pain.
"About a year and a half after I'd closed my world off, when I was still using the tea to sleep a few times a week, I faced the pain head on. To free myself of the physical burden, I followed the ritual of my family when someone dies. I walked to a nearby lake with each of their names in my hand, written on scraps of paper, and I burned them. I gave their physical presence in my life release to the sky and the water as ash, locked myself away for a week to write out all of the best memories I had of each of them, and allowed myself to dream again. The dreams were still so intense, so real that I almost didn't last the week, but every morning I woke and could compare them to what I'd written. I could know that what I'd seen was only what my heart wished for and not truth, and it let me, slowly, accept the still wonderfully terrible dreams as simply that."
Slowly, she pulls her fingers away from her hair pin to quiet the sounds it's been producing while she confessed her secrets. A few people know some of these details, but no one still in her life knows them all the way Thor does. Her lips press into a thin line as she exhales again, but she doesn't look up at him. This all still sits heavily on her and the next part of her story isn't likely to make him feel better about his own situation.
"All of it remains with me," she tells him, her voice softer now. "That pain is still there and I still cry at the loss I've inflicted on myself from time to time. The dreams come on occasion and sometimes I have to make the tea for a night so I can sleep and deal with everything with a clearer head. But I can do that because I've dealt with what's causing me to reach for it." She shakes her head a little and sighs. "Whatever is causing you to drink is what you need to deal with first. The reliance on alcohol is caused by whatever is truly hurting you. And to figure that out, you need to talk to those around you about what you're feeling. If you're not willing to do that, I don't know if you'll be able to move on."
no subject
"Time. Feeling grief and pain for more days than I can count. Talking about it with others. Accepting that what I'd done was done and that I'd never allow anything to change it. Reminding myself... that I can have hope about those I left behind, that their lives are everything I was seeing in my dreams and more." She reaches up to pull her fingers through her hair pin to ground herself and exhales a shaky breath. Hearing the musical sound it produces helps soothe her anxiety, but it also reminds her of a moment that was more important than many others when she was still dealing with the worst of the pain.
"About a year and a half after I'd closed my world off, when I was still using the tea to sleep a few times a week, I faced the pain head on. To free myself of the physical burden, I followed the ritual of my family when someone dies. I walked to a nearby lake with each of their names in my hand, written on scraps of paper, and I burned them. I gave their physical presence in my life release to the sky and the water as ash, locked myself away for a week to write out all of the best memories I had of each of them, and allowed myself to dream again. The dreams were still so intense, so real that I almost didn't last the week, but every morning I woke and could compare them to what I'd written. I could know that what I'd seen was only what my heart wished for and not truth, and it let me, slowly, accept the still wonderfully terrible dreams as simply that."
Slowly, she pulls her fingers away from her hair pin to quiet the sounds it's been producing while she confessed her secrets. A few people know some of these details, but no one still in her life knows them all the way Thor does. Her lips press into a thin line as she exhales again, but she doesn't look up at him. This all still sits heavily on her and the next part of her story isn't likely to make him feel better about his own situation.
"All of it remains with me," she tells him, her voice softer now. "That pain is still there and I still cry at the loss I've inflicted on myself from time to time. The dreams come on occasion and sometimes I have to make the tea for a night so I can sleep and deal with everything with a clearer head. But I can do that because I've dealt with what's causing me to reach for it." She shakes her head a little and sighs. "Whatever is causing you to drink is what you need to deal with first. The reliance on alcohol is caused by whatever is truly hurting you. And to figure that out, you need to talk to those around you about what you're feeling. If you're not willing to do that, I don't know if you'll be able to move on."