I wanted to summarize my grief perfectly.
I wanted to prove to my mother that I was in fact the better writer and deliver her eulogy.
But nothing came.
Instead I buried my head in my partner’s shoulder and tried not to weep too openly, lest people feel sorry for me at her funeral.
When my sister and I visited her house, I wanted a moment to break down and lay on the floor. The same floor she laid on as she died.
But instead my sister’s husband called and as the grief built up inside me, filling my eyes, the conversation was about baby formula, suddenly this was not a place to grieve.
Invisible. That’s what my grief was – invisible and unable to be captured in words.
At my home in Australia. I wanted the perfect dinner to honor my mother. I made her favorite dishes. I invited my closest friends. Now, after a dinner argument, I only still speak to one of those people.
Again, my grief is invisible, I am anxious and uncomfortable and I forget to show my slideshow.
I wanted a perfect moment with my grief.
I decide to hold a grief ritual. This way the grief is shared. Suddenly, I am not the center of attention and pity. We can all sit in our dirty, filthy, uncomfortable grief together. And we do.
But this is not the perfect moment for my grief.
The perfect moment doesn’t come.
There is no great revelation or important meaning and insight learned.
Instead, it festers inside.
I try to get it out in boxing classes, on assault bicycles and rowing machines, but usually it only surfaces when I’m driving.
This feels unsafe.
If you’ve ever tried to drive with a shield of tears flowing out of your eyes, than you would know, this is not safe.
My grief feels unsafe – I feel unsafe expressing it. This starts when my brother-in-law argues with me after my mother’s funeral and kicks me out of the house he shares with my only sister.
I’m not allowed to be sad.
I live away. I am a guest. I somehow am not as important in my grief. My sister is more sad. She is more important. I am difficult. My grief needs to be contained.
These are the unspoken messages I hear.
A chasm opens up and I find myself on the other side. I’m on the other side of everyone. I’m not sure how to get across, or if I even want to. I sit over here with my grief. This is familiar.
But I’ve been over here for awhile. Untethered.
I can see all the things I have been missing out on – on the other side. It seems it is time to start to make my way back. To figure out how things will be alongside my grief.
There is no perfect grief. No perfect eulogy. I can’t fix my grief with a dinner or a ritual, but I can get to know it. I can figure out how we will live together.
I can step over this chasm with my grief holding one hand, so we can figure this out together.
And that is what I will do, it’s all any of us can do.
When you wake up from that hazy dream-like state of grief, all you can do is get to know your grief and find a way to live with it. It won’t be going anywhere. And if you’re lucky enough to love and to love many, than you will be meeting with grief again.
There is no perfect grief, just grief, on its own. No fancy names or decorations, just grief, plain and simple. Multi-layered and complicated.
Just grief.
kittyscause 