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Quote by Richard Osman, Thursday Murder Club #1

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Richard Osman, Thursday Murder Club #1

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“Grief cannot be fixed because it is not a problem to solve; it is a deep emotional response to loss. The idea of 'healing' from grief often feels inadequate because it suggests an end point, a time when the pain will disappear. But the truth is, we don't heal from grief in the traditional sense. Instead, we heal through grief. We allow ourselves to feel the waves of sorrow, to confront the emptiness, and to adapt to life without the person we have lost.”

“I miss her and I miss her and I miss her," she began. "And I wait for the feeling to end because every other feeling has ended, no matter how intense, no matter how hard - but this won't. There's just no end to the missing. There was life before and there's life now. And I can't seem to accept it. I can't accept that I'll have to miss her forever. There will never be relief. There will never be a reunion. And I wish I had a God. I wish I believed in an afterlife or something, anything. But when I try to talk to her in my head, there's no response. I can't hear her. And I can't feel her. All I have is this missing. And part of me is glad it won't end because it's all I have to connect me to her now.”

“it felt like permission. The kind I hadn't let myself have for six months. The kind of permission that I'd been waiting for, as I sat alone in my aunt's apartment, and grief welled up so high it felt suffocating. The permission I thought I'd given myself, but it hadn't been permission to cry - it had been a command to be strong. To be okay. I told myself, over and over, I had to be okay. And finally - finally - someone gave me permission to come undone.”

“My husband loved nature, and he planted flowers and created a living garden, with pink and white peonies and other beautiful flowers, at the front of our house in Ottawa. Those flowers began to bloom in the weeks after he died. I felt like my heart was going to burst. They were coming to life, and he was gone.”

“Maybe she liked Van Gogh's work for other reasons, too. Maybe she liked how he created things while never knowing his own value. Maybe she liked the thought of being imperfect, but being loved anyway. Maybe she felt some sort of kinship with a man who, for his entire adult life, warred with his own monsters in his head. Vincent Van Gogh's last words were, after his brother comforted him by telling him he would get better from the self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest, "La tristesse durera toujours", "the sadness will last forever".”