I am pissed. I am smack in the middle of the so-called “grieving process.” Sometimes I feel as though the “process” is eating me alive. Writing helps me move through difficult things.
Grieving feels like being tangled up, suffocating, choking on your own emotions. It feels like a wave, a tsunami of unknown and uncertain. It feels like falling through space with nothing familiar to land on. It feels like pulling out your hair, running around in circles, and hitting wall after wall after wall. It feels utterly hopeless, never-ending. A giant gaping hole of hurt and confusion. It goes up, then down, then sideways, and then does spiral loop-dee-loops through your head and your heart. With a hot knife. It makes you feel physically ill and then utterly exhausted. It is unpredictable and nasty. And when you feel as though finally you’re through the worst of it, it’s as though something punches you in the gut and you are back in your bed, on the floor, on the couch, bawling out your brains.
Grieving is the loneliest process I know of, because you are on your own in your particular brand of grief. You try to connect with others going through it, but you are alone; separate. People tell you it will get better but all you can think is, “What if it DOESN’T?” I can’t do this for one more minute let alone one more hour, day, week, month, year! No one can save you, heal you, or fix you because this is your ride. It is the path you are on, though you most certainly did not choose this. No one in their right mind would ever choose this crazy, wild, terrifying ride from hell.