Through the grief and heart break, here's what I've learned. Grief bombarded me from all directions. Yes, there was my own grief, in all of its forms: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But there was also the grief and loss of everyone else, sometimes quietly and inward, other times projecting outward or just overflowing and messy. The second of these is much more difficult to deal with, because all I really wanted to do was deal with my own grief. As for the personal aspect, I suspect that these waves of loss in varying forms will continue to show up, unexpectedly, for a very long time.
I hadn't wanted to write about my loss, it is mine (I think this would be called isolation). I wanted to share it with only an intimate few, if at all. Several times, as if watching from an outside point of view, I saw myself pulling away from a hand that was holding mine, and cutting comforting embraces short. Denial isn't so blatant as telling myself that this isn't true. It likes to creep into my head inconveniently when I'm falling asleep. I question what I think I know: surely, I'm just mistaken. I mean, "never" is a really long time to not see someone again. It is a difficult concept to comprehend. My anger hasn't been epic. Initially, I couldn't find a justifiable reason for anger, I still can't. But it has shown up in smaller ways: an impatience and irritation with things completely unrelated to my loss. It can seem justifiable in such a raw emotional state, to snap at the most inconsequential thing. Bargaining has shown itself in moments as some kind of retrograde reasoning or understanding with nature, or the universe, or the forces that be. I can only describe it as almost a sense of relief that this mighty little man didn't have to endure hospitals and medical procedures, or that he didn't have to stop working because his eyes got too bad, which they would have sooner than later.I also disguise bargaining as some kind of commitment to bettering my own health. Depression is likely the most familiar. I've visited it more than I care to in life. It feels like fog, and physical ache, and fatigue, no sense of motivation or direction. I currently have a back log of chores and things I am supposed to do.
My point, dear reader, is not to evoke your sympathy or empathy, although these are the greatest of human emotions. These are just my observations of my experience. I suppose that if there is an intended purpose, perhaps it is that maybe my observations could be worthy of helping someone else. Maybe you, in your own loss. I realize that loss and grief don't come only with death, there are so many forms of loss. A variety of ways the heart can be broken. I think the process of grieving is similar regardless.
I don't want the fog of depression to overtake me and completely envelop me. I try every day to find my bearings again, lest I get lost in the fog. I choose one small goal a day to achieve. Today, it was writing this. I acknowledge my thoughts and feelings. Observe them, write about them, paint them. I accept that they will come in waves and that the tide is higher at times.
Even if I can accept that my grief will present all of these emotions, I cannot afford to be lost in the depression. But these emotions that I feel, or anyone feels, are best felt rather than suppressed or ignored. There's no right way or one way to grieve. Life will continue around me, whether I choose to participate, or not. There are still people to love and enjoy while I'm here, while they're here. There are sunsets to see, flowers to smell, things to be done. I will grieve, and I will live, too. It need not be an either/or choice.
I realize that grief from this particular loss is not mine alone. My family members grieve with me. My mother, brothers, sisters, friends, children, and so on--grieve collectively. In an even bigger picture, every human being experiences a similar loss.
Years ago, I stood within the walls of an ancient fortified castle. I heard and read the historical account of the battles and some of the people involved. I allowed my imagination to fill in the blanks about what it would have been like. The personal struggles, the romance, the scandal, the strife. I was both humbled and comforted by one thought: My experiences are not unique. Yes, the players may be different, each individual being unique, each interaction and relationship special in their own ways. But as a human collective: My experiences are not unique. It took the wind out of the sails of my isolation. The moment connected me to every human being: past, present, and future. I could no longer feel alone. We all experience the same emotions, because we are all human. We are not alone, you are not alone. I am not alone in my grief.
...and so it goes on.
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