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The Grief Attacks

April 4th, 2016 No comments

It happens some times. A lot, really.

I’ll be going along okay, actually functioning on an acceptable level, and it will kick me in the gut. It’s vicious like that, grief; completely uncaring about what I’m doing or that maybe I might be okay right this minute and it would be kind not to remind me… Some times I can even get up in the morning and for a minute or so while my mind collects all the ravaged pieces of memories and reassembles them into “awake” mode, I think “ahh, a new day.” But then it kicks me again, in the gut and in the heart and then everywhere else at once and I remember it wasn’t a dream and it did really happen and my only child is really gone. Those bruises from grief’s attacks don’t show on my skin, but my insides are a sickening mess.

If it happens at work, I lose all understanding of what I was doing and sit like a zombie for… I don’t know how long. On the verge of a tearful meltdown, I stare. I look at things that in an ordinary world are phones, pens, paper, computer, printer, keyboard… but in my zombie world have no meaning, they may as well be aliens for all the comprehension I can muster. I have refused to put his photos away, and there are times when I can look at his glowing smile and do the same. And there are times when I don’t dare look at his handsome face, his bright blue eyes, his loving wife, his beautiful sons. Because I know the kicking will start again and maybe one of these times it won’t stop. That happens some times too. The fear of being completely consumed by grief. It makes me afraid to start crying for fear I won’t be able to stop – as if I had control. The way it sucks all my energy and awareness, all of whatever cognitive ability remains, on top of the kicking, the mauling, is completely exhausting. Utterly, completely.

I still cannot conceive of this world where my son is gone, eaten alive by that foul fucking cancer. All illusions of what is right and what is wrong melt into this useless pot of despair. “They” tell me that with time I will come to accept what has happened, but I can’t imagine that day. It has been four months and four days. There has been a Christmas and a New Year and just yesterday, his would-be-27th birthday. Many of those “firsts” that They said would be hard. So on the second ones, I will be okay? I won’t miss him so much that I can’t breathe? I won’t feel my heart breaking day after day, night after night? How hopeful I am that They are right, and how doubtful I am at the same time.