I want to talk about grieving because no one likes to talk about it. Grieving is hard. It’s messy. It hurts, but it’s something we all have in common. Sometimes the only thing, but that’s a topic for another day.
I want to talk about grieving — the blood that seeps from open wounds, sometimes for years. Scars that never heal despite the loose scabs that have precariously formed to stem the flow of tears. They itch as they heal, and itch when they rub up against something rough, or sharp, or even just a bit too woolly.
I want to talk about grieving and how much we dread its presence. So much so that we do desperate things to make those final moments last longer. Especially when those moments are marred by trauma, dysfunction, and chaos. Those last seconds are all you have, and even though they trigger you, you fight with your own boundaries, seek holes in your own wall because “what if” and “how much longer” and “remember that one good time” and “maybe this time she’ll accept me.” We brave the pain because the end is in sight. We do things we may not do if there was only anger and hurt, and not finality to contend with.
I want to talk about grieving and how there is so much emphasis placed on last moments and open wounds. Everything becomes so sensitive, small things begin to mean so much, the past becomes the villain, and all we see are brambles wrapped so tightly around all our happy memories and marred by the dark cloud of finality.
I want to talk about grieving because it holds the assumption that there is an end. There is no end to grieving. There is no such thing as closure. There will always be something unsaid, whether deemed necessary to say or not. I envy those with great relationships. Grieving them is so much cleaner than sorting out an attic full of broken toys, angry memories, and unresolved conflicts.
I want to talk about grieving because we need to recognize when we are grieving. There are misconceptions about how long we can grieve, who (and what) we can grieve, and what that process is supposed to look like. Grief is a mask of a thousand faces. It’s in the way I cry, yet feel utterly numb in the same instance, because nothing ever feels ‘just right’ anymore. Just because we have to swallow it down to go on with our lives, doesn’t mean that we will heal. It just means that the grief reappears when we least expect it. Sometimes the signs are so far removed or buried, that we don’t even recognize the resurrected grief for what it is. How could we give ourselves and others the space, care, and compassion we need, if we cannot recognize our own grief until we’ve broken down crying at the table when the waiter forgets the side of ranch or flip out when someone asks us how we’re doing.
I want to talk about grieving because even if they are not gone yet, our hearts have already started to break. Years from now, when we go into a random store and smell the gum they used to chew, or hear a phrase they’d always say, a hug may still be needed. Because grieving never has an expiration date.
I want to talk about grieving because if I say it enough, I will actually feel like I want to, and not like I want to bury it within. I want to talk about grieving because, maybe, if we started talking about all the things that are hard to talk about, then we don’t have to live our lives thinking we’re the only one suffering.
