THESE DAYS I FEAR CROWDED ROOMS the most: the tapping shoes, clacking of keyboards and subtle resignations of frustratingly full days. They all represent that sense of presence, a sense of being and life. Which, when you are grieving, can be quite disorienting.
For the past month this has been my albatross: moving through a world teeming with life while mine haemorrhaged despondency. I have been brave enough—or at least clever—to mask that, to dodge ‘the’ questions. Because, if someone did ask (as people gently did), and if they pressed hard enough, the truth would escape, and the answer would not be the silly, unfettered and mischievous self I have worked so diligently to cultivate—the one I’ve genuinely felt, for so long, and laboured to exude. The hope, after all, is to elevate others even when you are a mess.
When John, my step-dad, transitioned from this world to another, so did my long-held vow of easiness. I granted myself permission to feel all my emotions: The rage. The hurt. The peace. The loss. Though, as with grief of this species, I came to reconcile with the fact that I was no longer who I once was, and while I am not entirely lost, it does not mean I have been found.
This ignites a secondary grief—one that underlines what no longer feels ‘right,’ outright crossing out what clashes with the change unfolding: an audit of the soul.
This ignites a secondary grief—one that underlines what no longer feels ‘right,’ outright crossing out what clashes with the change unfolding: an audit of the soul.
Today, I am learning to walk on new feet, and I am hoping not to stumble; but when I do, I hope I have the courage to stand up again. Most days, I wake up spotless and uninhibited, and other mornings, there is no greater burden than to rise from my bed. And if the home is too quiet, and a sniffle sounds too near weeping, should I fail to discern it, my body seizes—I am newly afraid of sorrow. Sometimes, I have a clear understanding of who I am, but truthfully, most days I am only pretending to.
Recently, I revisited my private library of works, and what stood out was that I had been transcribing grief for an extended time. Emotionally embalmed by unresolved pangs—that is no longer a place from which I would like to creatively operate. In spite of recent happenings, I still believe life is for the taking, and that living can be both scary and beautiful; one does not cancel the other—they work in concert. Similarly, I have faith in the human spirit—the unshakable and unboxable strength of our youth to show up and do good. How we show up for each other can be, and will always be, inspiring; I believe that is the remedy for the more challenging moments.
As I watch the path of healing outstretched before me, I’m not prescribing a deadline.
What I am doing is asking questions—raising someone new and looking forward to sharing what I gather along the way—a work in constant revision.
What I am doing is asking questions—raising someone new and looking forward to sharing what I gather along the way—a work in constant revision.
And hopefully, when someone asks the right question:
Are you really OK?
My body would not seize; it would just breathe.
