Every now and then you encounter a chilling statement. You know the one. It scars your mind, and retains potency decades later. My therapist said something that feels like one of those:
“The thing about grief is that it is forever”
That froze me. How do I comprehend that? And I understand it. No amount of time will bring back my grandmothers. No amount of grieving changes that.
But grief is forever? I assumed it would go away. What about the five stages of grief? That, appears to have been debunked, many times. Not only are there more steps, they’re not in any predictable order. In other words, we all experience grief differently.
Does the expression of emotions make the grief better or worse? Does writing about it? I cannot answer these things. I don’t even know where to start. What is the appropriate weight of grief? What is the appropriate expression of grief? Is it ok for me to cry, like ugly cry? Is it ok for me to not cry; the emotions remain, yet my eyes have dried. How long can I grieve? How long should I? Do I deserve to take a personal day? How about two? At what point does this become exploitative? If there’s an authority of this topic - I have questions.
And these were questions from before I had therapy today. Now that I know it will stay with me, what then? Is it going to be wave after wave at indeterminate intervals? Or is it going to be around in different forms? I imagine managing grief is like other skills. Something to be practiced. It’s a process.
Keeping a stoic exterior is my default. Emotions are easier to process analytically, but now I know it does not work that way. Emotions and analytical processes are two separate processes. You cannot logic your way out of an emotion.
For now, I find that I am comfortable having these conversations with a small segment of people. And I find that difficult. It feels lonely. Wanting to talk and ask for comfort from those you love and care for, but being unable to do so. It is a prison. And it is one of my own making. There was a time when reaching out was not an option. But that’s no longer the case. The people I surround myself with now have never given me cause to think they would be anything less than empathic. Yet the hesitation remains. And it sucks. I know.
I did reach out. It was weird. What next? I reached out. I don’t know what the next steps are. Do I engage them in stories of my grandma? How do I articulate this? I’ll keep writing, and maybe I will find out.