words on grief

Grief is learning the confines of our three dimensions.

Like when you break your favourite plate and just stare at it, willing time to move backwards so you can be more careful or trying to mould it together with your mind. Anything to reverse the outcome of the shattered pieces on the ground.

…

Grief is the feeling of a claw that sears down the front of your chest.

It’s the feeling of being cold all of a sudden in a heated room.

It’s the feeling of emptiness in your body, as if you just experienced a big drop on a roller coaster but you’re sitting in your bedroom.

It’s a loss that feels completely out of your control. All you want is to stop the roller coaster and reverse course back to safety and before you knew what it was like to fall.

…

Grief is the empty space where a loved one once actualized, is where the loss is felt most deeply. Real or imagined, conceptualizing something that was and understanding it now is not.

My chest starts to concave and my eyes weep, for I wish that I could hold your hand one more time.

…

How do you tell an acquaintance how you’re feeling?

I’m exhausted by nuance.

“I had a really hard week but I’m going to a friend’s place tomorrow!”, intonation rising with each string of words I concoct. The don’t worry I’m fine! see I’m being social! and exhibiting healthy behaviours! sandwiched at the end of every answer to that unpleasant “how are you doing”.

I want to tell you that I start sobbing in between menial tasks. Except they’re not menial, I’ve been avoiding them for days. Some days I feel numb, some days I feel joy, most days I wake up with anxiety in my chest when I remember what loss feels like and that I don’t get to see my Dad again.

I worry that my classmates think I’m making excuses and that if I’m too honest with certain friends, they won’t check up on me anymore. Because it’s sad and they don’t want to deal with mortality yet.

I don’t either.

Can I take it back now?