Here’s what happens when you lose someone:you have good days and you have bad days. You have days when things feel normal, when it feels like before. And there are days when the weight of your loss hits you, lodges itself into your chest so you can’t breathe without feeling it.
Within the good days, sometimes there are moments. Tiny instances when you think about how you can never tell the person you lost what happened. He or she will never know. And it slows you down for a moment, hits that chord deep within you that reminds you that you are still grieving.
It feels like I’m juggling something, but I can’t quite figure out what it is I’m juggling. Can I simultaneously be okay and not okay? What contradictions grief brings along with it. What doubt.
I focus on the exciting things, like moving to Austin and starting graduate school. I focus on hanging out with friends and reading good literature, on watching good movies. I focus on working out and cultivating more strength, because the more physical strength I have, the easier it will be to hold myself together. I try to keep myself busy, because when I’m busy, I can’t think too much about my grief. But, in those moments, I feel it. I feel it in my eyelids, my cheekbones, my arms, my legs. I feel it constricting and expanding within my all too fragile rib cage. In those moments, it’s hard to push past it. It’s hard to silence it and shelve it for later.
For now, I live with my grief like an unwelcome inhabitant. I face it only when I’m alone and sure that it will not break me. I look forward to the day when I can work past it.
I haven’t quite figured that bit out yet.