A journey of grief, real grief for me started 35 years ago with my father’s death. I don’t believe I dealt with his passing. I was getting married in a few months and I just stuffed it down. It got revived 6 years ago with my brother’s death, with John, it was as if a part of me was now missing, and the world was, and still is sadder and less vibrant without him. In so many ways I have been lost with my brother. And now, this year, my emotionally abusive mother’s death and physically abusive stepfather’s suicide, have completely knocked my legs out from underneath me. I feel lost, not knowing which way is up or down.
Grief feels like being trapped in a dark cave where some days, all I can do is breathe. Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in ‘Pushing Through’:
‘…I think I am passing through solid rock, as the ore lies, alone. Everything is close to my face, and everything close to my face is stone.’
This is how it feels for me. I am constantly restless, unable to rest or truly relax. Sleep is even more elusive.
Grief affects both mind and body differently. In the mind, grief is consciously processed through thoughts and reflections, while the body experiences grief through feelings and emotions. Since my brother’s death, I’ve been in too many hospitals, ambulances, and ORs. Each time I think, this is it, I’ll be good now, and then there’s a new illness, another surgery. It would be comical if it were, say in a Wes Anderson movie. Each time it almost feels like a reminder or punishment for not dealing with everything that’s happened, for trying to push through it. My body, like my mind, is constantly at war with itself and unresolved grief.
I’ve tried various ways to manage grief, therapy, medications, and even psychedelic treatments. Nothing works for long if it works at all. I sometimes feel trapped, constantly struggling with its unpredictable nature, long-lasting impact, and how it comes and goes as it pleases.
It impacts nearly all my relationships. It leads me to doubt that anyone could care about me. It made me a manipulative people pleaser just to try to feel safe. It makes me less lovable when I’m hurt and angry and don’t know how to express it, or who is safe to express it with. It’s a rinse-and-repeat cycle for loneliness that I keep cycling through.
Living with grief is like navigating through a storm without a compass, a ship, a crew, or even a raincoat. I stumble, lose my way, and get back up only to stumble again.
There’s no manual, no roadmap. The path is often unclear and littered with obstacles. I’m not learning to carry this with grace, rather I’m fumbling in the dark, grappling with the relentless tides of emotions. It’s a journey that I never anticipated, and the finish line seems elusive. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m doing it anyway, one uncertain step at a time.
One of us.
his is not the easy path. Anyone who has walked it wished for an easier, softer way. If there is one, I have not found it. If there was one there would be fewer services like today.
because there is nothing more we can do for our dead.
Google has been good enough to remind me that your birthday is coming up. There’s a bright red rectangle, with a little picture of birthday cake on my calendar on the top of Tuesday, an “All Day Event”, “John Day’s birthday”. Facebook too doesn’t want me to forget your 48th birthday is coming up this week.
bones
wordless
alive for one week
and now for sonnet completely different
“There will be bad days, Times when the world weighs on you for so long it leaves you looking for an easy way out. There will be moments when the drought of joy seems unending. Instances spent pretending that everything is alright when it clearly is not….” Shane Koyczan, excerpt from “
There will be days where your best is not crying, at least in front of everyone, at least not for extended periods, at least not to the point of boogers running down your face (save that for the car where you have tissues), that your best is not crying, and not curling into a ball wishing the world away. Some days that’s all you’ve got.
Today I am feeling all of the things, emotionally, mentally, physically, metaphorically…. (note: I feel most things metaphorically, writer thing… maybe, not sure… actually I have no bloody idea and am freestyling this bit). Medically, things have been a bit rough. So much so that I have four new prescriptions and more doctor appointments than I would prefer (I would prefer zero appointments, but still). Everything hurts, well not everything, just the things I’m focusing my attention on. I feel a bit like a House episode, minus the curmudgeonly doctor. My doctor is very nice, and quite firm, which is why I’m sitting here looking a gaggle* of pill bottles. *a herd? a cluster? a bevy? what do you call a collection of medication bottles? I even 
I find this little bit of music, and there are no oatmeal raisin cookies in my house, no lightly frosted lemon scones, no dark chocolate truffles with caramel and sea salt, none of these things, so I have to sit here and feel all the feelings, which is still not my favourite. I’m even out of lemons for my tea.
I want you
For too many days I have not written about you. I tell your stories more quietly, to just myself. Wearing grief on the outside becomes less fashionable as time passes.
When you were just a little boy mom had to rush you to hospital in the middle of the night. You were very sick, and I remember being so jealous that you got presents, new pajamas, and all the attention. You recovered completely and the dramatic midnight hospital trip became a family antidote that we would pull out and laugh about.
Johnny, I think about you every single day, every hour of every day that I’m awake, and often in my sleep. My heart hurts every day. I wear some of your clothes, your art work hangs in my office, your tools rattle in my trunk every time I drive. You are with me every moment, so much so that I forgot that I needed to take care of myself. I have been so wrapped in grief and heartbreak, and keeping that pain inside that I made myself physically ill.
Emma and Toad 