I'm bogged down with work. I have a project I forgot about. I'm feeling sick.
As I sat pondering which excuse to use in response to her "still on?", my fingers managed instead to type: "Yes please." And at 2:12, I began my day.
I didn't bother with makeup.
I forgot real shoes, realizing too late that I was still wearing flipflops in sub-40-degree weather.
I was dizzy with the fear of passing a professor and having to explain why my seat had been empty that morning.
I craved the cover of my still wrinkled bedsheets.
I forgot real shoes, realizing too late that I was still wearing flipflops in sub-40-degree weather.
I was dizzy with the fear of passing a professor and having to explain why my seat had been empty that morning.
I craved the cover of my still wrinkled bedsheets.
But I had gotten out of bed.
Getting out of bed can be an obstacle when you're grieving. There's something about the reintroduction to reality from the blurred-edge, everything's-okay safety of dreams that makes emptiness especially sharp. Grief is tricky in that it is inconstant, sometimes light and sometimes heavy. Add my inconsistent reactions to grief's inconsistency and you get days like today.
What most people don't understand about grief is that it's not an emotion. It's a process. In grieving, there is sadness. But there is also numbness. There is fear, anger, guilt, confusion, regret, and sometimes, miraculously, a breathless moment of joy.
So sometimes, those who grieve feel nothing. Sometimes, those who grieve feeling everything. And most of the time, it's a choice.
I call them empty days.
What most people don't understand about grief is that it's not an emotion. It's a process. In grieving, there is sadness. But there is also numbness. There is fear, anger, guilt, confusion, regret, and sometimes, miraculously, a breathless moment of joy.
So sometimes, those who grieve feel nothing. Sometimes, those who grieve feeling everything. And most of the time, it's a choice.
"Suffering is not caused by pain but by resisting pain." - Unknown
In my experience, it's easier ignoring pain altogether.
Pain numbs if you let it settle.
Pain numbs if you let it settle.
There are also different categories of grief. They call mine anticipatory.
"Anticipatory grief is defined as the feelings loved ones have in reaction to knowing that someone they care about is terminally ill. It occurs before the death of the afflicted loved one and can be an important part of the grieving process since this allows time for loved ones to say goodbye."(Bolds added by me.)
Categories make neat work of a messy process.
They are mostly superficial.
And still, I refer to myself by the title of anticipatory griever because words offer permanence and immediacy while grief offers neither.
They are mostly superficial.
And still, I refer to myself by the title of anticipatory griever because words offer permanence and immediacy while grief offers neither.
The first thing I remember about leaving my room this afternoon (other than the vague notion of cold toes) is seeing my friend smile. There was worry ("Did you just wake up from a nap?" (meaning: "You look off, is everything okay?")), but there was a sincerity that had me almost in tears. It said, without words, I'm happy you're here.
And in that moment, through the guilt of allowing the morning to slip away, through the regret that I hadn't told my dad I love you enough that past weekend, through the fear that his condition would worsen by the next time I see him, I felt myself smile in return.
In that moment of feeling, I experienced grief more fiercely than I had in weeks.
And so, in a moment of untethered openness, I said the words I often don't allow myself to even think:
And in that moment, through the guilt of allowing the morning to slip away, through the regret that I hadn't told my dad I love you enough that past weekend, through the fear that his condition would worsen by the next time I see him, I felt myself smile in return.
In that moment of feeling, I experienced grief more fiercely than I had in weeks.
And so, in a moment of untethered openness, I said the words I often don't allow myself to even think:
My dad has ALS. Lou Gehrig's disease. And it's getting bad.
And it was easier than I thought.
The words sounded so harmless once they were outside of me.
And then, "What would you say to me if I were in your situation?" she asked, after repeated assurances that my excuses weren't excuses, but valid reasons, even legitimate ways of coping. My response was, "I'd tell you to do what you need to do."
Yet even as I said it, I felt, somehow, that it didn't apply to me.
She refused to let me settle.
An hour and a half later, our late lunch came to an end. I felt full, not just from the food, but full and whole and alive. There was an ache in my chest, and it was sad and happy and grateful and scared. It was grieving.
We hugged again and again and I couldn't stop the thank yous from pouring off my lips. Each time she thanked me in return, I wanted to resist. I wanted to say, I'm not as strong as you think I am. But I didn't. Because, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might be stronger than I think I am.
The words sounded so harmless once they were outside of me.
And then, "What would you say to me if I were in your situation?" she asked, after repeated assurances that my excuses weren't excuses, but valid reasons, even legitimate ways of coping. My response was, "I'd tell you to do what you need to do."
Yet even as I said it, I felt, somehow, that it didn't apply to me.
"As an adult, the willingness to be open to grief is often diminished. A failure to accept and deal with loss will only result in further pain and suffering."
In my experience, it's healthier to feel pain.
Pain multiplies if you let it settle.
She refused to let me settle.
An hour and a half later, our late lunch came to an end. I felt full, not just from the food, but full and whole and alive. There was an ache in my chest, and it was sad and happy and grateful and scared. It was grieving.
We hugged again and again and I couldn't stop the thank yous from pouring off my lips. Each time she thanked me in return, I wanted to resist. I wanted to say, I'm not as strong as you think I am. But I didn't. Because, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might be stronger than I think I am.
I'm not broken because I feel pain.
I am whole.
I am whole.
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