Today’s article is not exactly a sexy topic, but it’s one that feels very real and true for me at the moment. One that needs to be discussed. So I’m going to discuss it, because it’s all I can do.
Why aren’t more people talking about this? Why aren’t more people talking about grief?
Why is it shamed, hidden and covered with masks of “I’m fine” or “I’m doing better” when in reality, there’s a world inside that feels like it has ended?
It’s not dramatic. It feels viscerally real some days.
There are parts of me that died when my father passed away in November. There are parts of me that are still dying. And they’re dying a slow, violent death at that.
Grieving is something that I couldn’t have fully understood until I began the descent into the underworld of unraveling it. Feeling it. Being WITH it. Letting it hold me in the darkness of its embrace.
Maybe that’s why we don’t talk about it. Most of us can’t fathom or fully understand the deep, dark grip of grief unless we’ve been kissed by the unforgiving lips of deep sorrow.
Just like sex, grief is considered taboo. It’s a hush-hush, keep quiet thing. We’re unconsciously trained to handle our own and others’ grief a certain way…
Grab a tissue and dab your eyes and wipe your nose before others see that you’ve been crying. Don’t expose yourself. Don’t show your vulnerability. Your pain. Your sadness.
Slap a fake smile on and when others aren’t looking, the deadened glaze will form over your eyes if not just for a brief moment.
Grieve when you’re alone, but don’t show the signs when you’re out in public.
Stay strong. You’ll get through this. He’s in a better place. He’s free now.
I’ve heard it all and logically I get it and I am so fucking grateful to every person who sent love and well wishes or helped support my family in any way during this time.
I’m not angry at others for trying or even necessarily the things we all say in times like this. I’m not trying to be unkind or ungrateful for those who’ve sent well wishes, love and condolences. Or who’ve shown up simply to hold space or ask what we need. Those things help tremendously.
But underneath it all, the only “appropriate” words or actions that society has given us to use in in times like these still don’t soothe the pain completely. Which is totally understandable.
Those are just the loving, kind things you do and say to someone to try to make them feel better. It’s all you can really do, because nothing takes the pain away. Hell, I’ve said most of those myself to others who were grieving when I didn’t understand what grief felt like in my body, heart and soul.
Heavy, deep, murky. Like I’m stuck in a never-ending hole and the light keeps fading away, out of reach.
It feels like swallowed pain. Something lodged in my throat, heavy and hard, like a giant knot that I can’t quite swallow or release.
It feels like confusion when I wake up each morning and remember it all over again and once again my world crashes down.
It feels like I’m wearing thick goggles after crying that warp my vision, making everything look distorted and unreal. And the surreal feeling settles in that he’s gone and it kills another part of me inside. A part that was still hanging on.
It feels like choking down tears when I’m in a store because I see someone who reminds me of him. Or I smell a certain candle fragrance and it takes me back to my youth, when he was here, alive, breathing, with a beating heart and all.
Or I see another girl with her dad and I think to myself as if pleading to her in my mind “Please appreciate him. Even if he embarrasses you. Don’t ever stop loving him and appreciating him.”
It feels like a heart that is broken open and unsure whether it will be put back together again. And I know what others may say (because I have also said it). That it will come together again…with time. Time mends the heart.
It’s true, I know. I’ve had my heart broken open many times. I’ve grieved broken relationships, old wounds, disappointing circumstances, the loss of other loved ones, traumas.
But waking up each morning and feeling the weight on my heart, the shattered pieces and the sick feeling I get when I’m reminded of it all, it feels like it won’t ever be the same again.
And it won’t. It will be different. Stronger I’m sure. More open. Able to love more.
But before I can get there I need to plunge deeper into the darkness of this grief. Let her have her wicked way with me.
I need to feel the denial that makes me want to throw a screaming tantrum and fall into a deep, blackout sleep, hoping to wake up and find that it was all just a terrible and very real nightmare.
I need to feel the rage that comes up like a roaring fire from the depths of my womb and belly. The rage that makes me feel like I could incinerate the entire planet with my fiery wrath.
I need to feel the heartbroken sensation of knowing that I’ll never get to see my father again. Not in his body. Not the way I’ve known him to be. Not the way I’m used to.
I need to slowly say goodbye to each broken, lost dream that included him. Dropping them, one by one, into their own carved graves in the dirt. Tears falling, howling cries of despair, hands not wanting to release them. Wanting to hold on a little bit longer.
Grief is something we need to talk about more. I know there are amazing people out there who support others in their grief, but what about those of us who need to express our true grief in the face of those we love or know, not just professionally?
What about the conversations we have in passing? Why do we put our masks on? Why do we hide what feels real and so fucking alive inside of us?
Why do we refuse to show our pain to others?
One of my theories, beyond the common conditioning that we should all stay positive, keep our emotions in check (or not express them at all) so as to not look too weak, emotional or (insert whatever word you want that limits our human expression and well-being), is that our nervous systems aren’t used to holding grief.
We aren’t used to holding our own grief, let alone another’s grief.
Most of us hide our emotions deep inside. We stuff them. We push the anger down like we’re pushing the head of an angry, clawing animal down into a deep, dark box.
We pretend the grief or the anger or the stagnancy isn’t there and we keep on keepin’ on.
And when we see someone who has been through a trauma or the tragedy of losing someone (or whatever else you may be grieving the loss of), we don’t know what to do. We don’t know how to hold it or support them.
We’re not taught how to embody, hold and really, truly FEEL our own grief. So how can we hold space for someone else’s grief?
How can we meet them in their tender, shattered spaces when we can’t meet our own tendered, shattered spaces within ourselves?
Sometimes I catch myself feeling guilty for still grieving. It hasn’t even been a month, but I already feel that energy to let go and move on consuming me, because it’s what I’ve learned from society.
Life keeps moving on, but there’s a part of my world that has ended and on certain days it feels like life is a movie reel just playing out in front of me, yet I’m not actively participating in.
Some days it feels wrong to move on. Some days I feel guilty for living. Grief has stirred up some strange, fucked up things in me. But I have to witness, honor and be with those strange, fucked up things.
I have to talk about them. That’s my healing salve for now.
I’ve had many beautiful people tell me to take my time. I know that’s true, but the sentiment doesn’t seem to be supported by society itself or the conditions we’ve built to hide grief like the deepest secret we don’t want anyone to know.
That’s why we need to start talking about grief. Maybe this is my grief talking right now. My grief may be the one writing this article. Spilling her unheard, unseen and unwelcome words out for others to hear, see and welcome into their hearts.
I want others to know they’re not alone. I want you to know you’re not alone. I want you to feel seen, heard and welcomed in your grief. Especially with yourself.
I’m not an expert on grief, but I am grieving. I’m grieving in a different way than I ever have, because I’ve never felt or experienced it this deep and painful before.
Losing a parent is something I never thought I’d experience so early on. I never thought it would happen on some naive level.
It doesn’t matter whether someone dies expectedly or unexpectedly. It’s all painful. It changes you.
Parts of you will die.
Parts of you will come out that you’ve never met before…and they’ll feel really fucking strange and dark.
Parts of you will hang on for dear life.
Parts of you will maybe never be okay. And many parts of you will, even while you’re grieving. It’s not an either-or situation.
You can grieve and feel bliss, pleasure, love and a million other emotions, feelings and sensations simultaneously. That’s what it means to be alive.
I know I won’t feel this way forever. I also know that I’m living a beautiful, abundant, enriching life right now and I’m also experiencing the shadows of grief…and grief has its own timeline. It’s not linear.
I can feel so overjoyed one moment and then burst into tears out of nowhere the next. And then two minutes later I feel better. It’s cyclical and spiraling. It ebbs and flows, waves of emotion coming in like the tides of the ocean.
I needed to get this out, because I want you to know that if you’re grieving, it’s okay to grieve. You don’t need my permission or anyone else’s to be where you are and feel what you feel.
Maybe telling you all of that will piss you off – it pisses me off regardless of what anyone says. I don’t necessarily get angry at the person. I’m just fucking angry.
I’m angry that there seems to be no healing salve other than time. And on some days that realization just pisses me off and makes me hurt all over again.
I’m allowed to be hurt, sad, brokenhearted, angry.
I’m angry that this happened and that’s all a part of the process too.
No one can take my grief or anger away. I have to feel it and love it and let it go like a butterfly being freed from a glass container when I’m ready.
This feels like it’s complete…for now. Maybe I’ll have more to say on grief soon. I’m still learning how to be with it. How to feel it without wanting to jump out of my skin or leave my body. I’m still learning how to be real and true when others ask me how I’m doing instead of putting on my mask.
I’m not perfect and some days I don’t want to expose myself. Some days I want to be alone in my grief. Some days I’m just too emotionally and even physically exhausted to share it with anyone else. Even if they ask.
I guess that’s all part of the process too. For this moment, I remove my mask and show you my grief. If you’re feeling brave, you can show me yours sometime.
I just need to expose mine and give it the space to be seen, heard and potentially welcomed by another, but especially by me.
I love you.
xx
Amber