Big Arms Big issues

Grief isn’t one thing. It’s a kaleidoscope, a stained-glass window. A thousand jagged pieces that make up a bigger picture nobody wants to see. It is everything all at once. 

Grief is hopelessness. You say I’ll make it through this, but I don’t believe I can, and even if I could, I don’t want to. Jason’s death ripped my entire future from me, and all I see now is a vast, desolate wasteland. I don’t want to make it through this, can’t you see that? When you say, “You’re strong, you’ll make it through,” the question I want to ask back is, “For what”? What am I making it through for? There is nobody and nothing left. You say I’m young, bright, and beautiful. You say my career is extraordinary. You say I’ll find love again. What you can’t seem to understand is those things hold no allure. My career is nothing if I have nobody to share it with, for Jason gave my job meaning. I loved succeeding because I loved feeling his gaze of pride and adoration upon me. Receiving a trophy for a job well done means nothing to me now if I can’t share in the joy of it with him. 

You say I’ll find love again. I don’t want love again. I don’t want a new love. I want my old love. I want the love I shared with Jason. I want the life I shared with Jason. I want the secure love that is known, comfortable, and wraps its arms around me. It’s an old, cozy sweater kind of love. Can’t you see that finding a new love feels foreign, impossible, and terrifying? I am not trying to replace him. I can’t just insert a new man into my life and pretend that will fix this big, gaping hole of loss inside of me. You can’t just copy-paste a new boyfriend and expect that to make this all go away.

What is true right now is that nothing you can say or offer as hope to me matters. I can’t see above the darkness; those things feel out of touch for me, and I don’t want them, even if they were within my grasp. I don’t want platitudes; I don’t want to have hope for a future because that future, whatever it is, is not the one I want. I wanted to move abroad and play board games every morning across from the most beautiful, long-haired, warm ray of sunshine of a man. I wanted to have an adventure and see the world. I don’t want to do those things with myself or just anyone; it was him, it was always Jason. Grief is hopelessness. 

Grief is exhaustion. I am so, so tired. Please stop asking me what I want for dinner or what I am doing today. I don’t want anything, and I don’t know; I sincerely do not know. Just put a plate of food in front of me, and maybe I’ll eat it. Perhaps I won’t, but at least I won’t have had to make the Herculean effort of deciding what I want. I don’t care if we eat out or in; I don’t care what type of food it is; it tastes like sand and broken dreams anyway. Don’t ask me about my plans; I have none. Just tell me where to go, when, and how to dress. I can follow orders right now, but I cannot make decisions. Grief is saying I’ll wash my face tomorrow and then realizing it’s been about seven days. A routine I’ve been religious about since middle school is suddenly impossible to keep up with. But a dirty face doesn’t seem to matter; who do I have to look beautiful for anyway? No amount of retinol could fight the sagging skin and puffy eyes; I feel I have aged ten years in the last month. The most expensive serums in the world can’t fight the decay. Grief is exhaustion. 

Grief is jealousy. I hold my niece and I want to cry because I am jealous. I am jealous that others have children, and I fear my window for them is closing. And don’t tell me I’m young and can try again. I don’t want just any kids; I wanted the children I dreamed about with Jason. I am jealous when I watch my brother play with his daughter because I know Fern will never have a dad to play with again, and that feels so wrong. I am jealous of my friend who just got engaged; her life starts while mine ends. I am jealous of the friends who step into my grief with me for a few hours and then go home to their husbands and houses and their mundane lives wrapped in a security blanket, unscathed by tragedy. I am jealous of the people who send me sweet texts that they’re thinking of me and then put the tragedy away and carry on with their days. I would give anything to be able to put this tragedy away. I am jealous of the people with moms and first husbands who didn’t leave them or the second marriages that have lasted and made all the pain of the first one melt away. I am jealous of the woman with a man wrapping his arms around her, someone to share finances with, and someone to install their AC units. I glare at my AC unit, knowing I’ll have to wrangle it into my storage unit alone. I am jealous of the lucky people who get to have a happy life; I wonder why that seems so unattainable to me. I am jealous of the people who don’t have to wonder if they should check divorced, widowed, or both on forms that question their relationship status. Grief is jealousy. 

Grief is being a ghost. I wish that I could wear a name tag that says, “I’m grieving; go gentle on me.” I wish there were a way to signify I need a little extra grace, that when the cashier at my neighborhood co-op asks me my member number, and I momentarily forget it was Jason’s, I might cry. When the barista asks what size coffee I want, I sincerely don’t know because that question feels so confusing to me, what size do I want? I don’t care; Jason is dead. 12 or 16 ounces won’t change that. I sit at red lights and know I can turn right, but I can’t summon up the awareness to figure out if it’s okay to go; where are all these cars coming from? So I wait as everyone honks behind me because I just need the light to turn green and tell me it’s safe to go, I can’t figure it out for myself right now. I am floating through life, hovering around the edges. Some days I’m not even sure I’m here. Can people see me? Grief is being a ghost.

Grief is weakness. I used to swim across lakes and tear through forests on my mountain bike. Now, I drag myself to yoga, and it drains the last reserves of energy I can find. A simple downward dog makes me feel like I could just topple over; sometimes, I want to. I think of how good it would feel to just lay on my mat and weep. To just give up. How can I do yoga without Jason next to me? How can I do anything without Jason next to me? A simple stretch defeats the girl who trained for marathons. What has happened to my body? Grief is weakness. 

Grief is anger—raw, unfiltered rage. I want to scream at him, tell him he opened me up to a future I never knew I wanted, and then I fell for it, and then he left me, taking everything with him. Grief is anger at the person you lost, the people who haven’t yet had a loss, the person who took your person from you, and the universe for the unfairness of it all. Grief is a ticking timebomb of rage, and the most innocuous question, look, or gesture can detonate you at any second. Grief is a landmine. Grief is anger. 

Grief is hunger. I like being hungry. Somehow that feels right. Jason can’t enjoy food any longer, so why should I? That slight edge of hunger reminds me I am somehow alive. It makes me feel like I am still part of him. If I let go of that hunger and fill myself with something that isn’t him, I am betraying him. So I stay hungry. I eat enough to get through the day but not a drop more. My shorts are starting to sag around my hips. Good, I think to myself.  Maybe then I will disappear. Grief is hunger. 

Grief is fear, a deep sense of loneliness, an aching chasm, an expansive wilderness, a line drawn in the sand. Grief is hiding. 

Grief isn’t one thing. It’s a kaleidoscope, a stained-glass window. A thousand jagged pieces that make up a bigger picture nobody wants to see. It is everything all at once.