My new roommate is Grief. While emotional pain of loss is totally expected, the depths and shallows, ebb and flow, and unexpected jump scares of Grief is something you can read about, learn about, and talk about, but never know until Grief takes up intimate residence in the absence of a loved one. Grief is a physical presence.
I find Grief painful and exhausting. I do not sleep well, Grief wakes me at add times and does not let my monkey brain rest. Music is not soothing, it brings tears. Grief has spoiled all my favorite songs. I used to love End of the Line by the Traveling Wilburys, now that song is a cruel jest. I wake too early in the morning, and am so sleepy in the afternoon I need a nap. Some days that nap just segues into bedtime with only brief moments to feed cats, tidy up, read the mail, close curtains, do a few dishes. Chores are done piecemeal, one step at a time. It is a good day if I can tackle more than the basics. What was routine now feels like I am chipping away at a mountain of granite.
The mail. Grief resides in my mailbox every day.
I have headaches. My eyes get irritated from tearing up, my nose and throat raw from snuffling, from coughing and moaning aloud. The muscles in my neck and shoulders remain knotted. My back aches. I cannot breathe freely and fully. A hot bath is little relief, the drain isn't working right and I can't ask Larry to fix it.
Grief has stolen my appetite. I eat, I try to use up what is in the house, which is a lot of food. While I am queasy, generally I don't have the gut distress I associated with being tense. My stomach and bowels simply do not care and have given up. Balanced meals do not appeal, a protein bar or shake and coffee will do. Hydration makes me sad, really, because all my good water bottles are covered with Burning Man stickers and wrist bands.
I wear a caul of irritation and stress over my head, swirling down my shoulders, arms, and back. Like a veil, I can feel the presence like gauze and black lace blocking light and joy and comfort.
Sometimes Grief takes a stroll around the block, I am okay, I do things, I breathe. Then like a bad horror film, Grief jumps out of a drawer, from behind the closet door, from a photo or piece of clothing or scrap of paper. Fuck you, Grief.
I know this is temporary, but damn, I am weary.
I find Grief painful and exhausting. I do not sleep well, Grief wakes me at add times and does not let my monkey brain rest. Music is not soothing, it brings tears. Grief has spoiled all my favorite songs. I used to love End of the Line by the Traveling Wilburys, now that song is a cruel jest. I wake too early in the morning, and am so sleepy in the afternoon I need a nap. Some days that nap just segues into bedtime with only brief moments to feed cats, tidy up, read the mail, close curtains, do a few dishes. Chores are done piecemeal, one step at a time. It is a good day if I can tackle more than the basics. What was routine now feels like I am chipping away at a mountain of granite.
The mail. Grief resides in my mailbox every day.
I have headaches. My eyes get irritated from tearing up, my nose and throat raw from snuffling, from coughing and moaning aloud. The muscles in my neck and shoulders remain knotted. My back aches. I cannot breathe freely and fully. A hot bath is little relief, the drain isn't working right and I can't ask Larry to fix it.
Grief has stolen my appetite. I eat, I try to use up what is in the house, which is a lot of food. While I am queasy, generally I don't have the gut distress I associated with being tense. My stomach and bowels simply do not care and have given up. Balanced meals do not appeal, a protein bar or shake and coffee will do. Hydration makes me sad, really, because all my good water bottles are covered with Burning Man stickers and wrist bands.
I wear a caul of irritation and stress over my head, swirling down my shoulders, arms, and back. Like a veil, I can feel the presence like gauze and black lace blocking light and joy and comfort.
Sometimes Grief takes a stroll around the block, I am okay, I do things, I breathe. Then like a bad horror film, Grief jumps out of a drawer, from behind the closet door, from a photo or piece of clothing or scrap of paper. Fuck you, Grief.
I know this is temporary, but damn, I am weary.
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