Today’s prompt: If you could tell people something, tell them what is true, what is true about grief and love and loss, something they do not know, or can’t know, what would it be? If you could address them, what would be said?
What truths can I tell you about grief and love and loss?
So many things and nothing at all.
Grief changes us. It changes us as surely as if it alters our DNA. I am different now, living as Tonya of After, and I know I’ve only seen a preview–24 weeks down, the rest of my life to go. Even so new to this life as Tonya of After, I can recognize the changes in myself. Some are good, but some are bad. I’m far more empathetic than Tonya of Before (good), but at the same time, I don’t care about everything that happens (bad-ish). Grief narrows my field of vision, eliminating what lives on the fringes of my life. That sounds heartless, I know. Maybe it is. Survival mode is rough. Hopefully, time will widen my scope and the fringes will snap into focus.
Grief is everywhere.
Grief disrupts everything. Every. Single. Thing. Looking in from the outside, grief seems emotional. If grief is strictly emotional, then its psychosomatic effects are vicious. Yes, grief makes me cry. I’ve cried every day since August 24th, some days for hours, some days for minutes, and some, mercifully, for seconds. While I had no idea I could be this sad for this long, I’m not entirely surprised by the crying. My son died. Of course I cry.
What I didn’t expect was all the rest.
No appetite. No good sleep. Exhaustion not proportional to bad sleep. An old stranger’s face on my head.
Grief wrecks me. It’s turned me into a stranger to myself. I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror or the virtual meeting. My name is under an old, ragged stranger’s picture. Grief stole my focus, my appetite, and my sleep. Grief infiltrated every part of my life–mind and body. I didn’t expect grief to be so pervasive.
Grief is an enigma. A mean enigma, but an enigma. We are scared of what we don’t know. That’s normal. I get it. There’s something about grief that scares people. Makes them jumpy. Makes them jump ship. Not everyone jumps; some stay and face the fear with me. Some stand very still, hoping I won’t notice them. Others jump. I know seeing tragedy hit so close to home is intimidating. Scary. The thing is, grief is scary for me, too, but it’s part of my life right now. It’s not a choice I made, but here I am, grieving.
Grief runs on no timeline. It’s not linear or predictable or convenient. Grief is its own boss. I’ve read many articles and books on grief and on losing someone to suicide, hoping to find answers or a path or anything that could make this experience more manageable, but trying to tame a wild beast like grief is pointless. It’s a waste of my time and precious energy. Grief does its own thing. Grief doesn’t care if I’m in the privacy of my home or car, or if I’m in a crowded store. Grief often crashes a party, overstays its welcome. Its nonexistent welcome. Grief is everywhere, all the time. It can lurk, quiet and unobtrusive, but it can also attack loudly and without warning. It’s a real jerk that way.
In the end, my grief is my love for Cooper, but my love is wrung out, strung out, missing Cooper as forcefully as I loved him. Perhaps, just as I didn’t fight my love for Cooper, I shouldn’t fight my grief. My love and my grief are inextricably joined, and I won’t let loose my love. So, I grieve.
Woods Writes 