A Mentor in Grief

-
I am not ready for anyone’s “inspiration” about how they live with this, about how they move forward. I am not looking for encouragement or for a guiding star. I don’t know how to admire someone who just did what they had to do, who had to learn against their will how to live with something that they never asked for.

I’m not sure it helps me to look to others for direction; it feels better to trust myself to find my own path forward. I know I will have to find my own way.

I couldn't find the words, but I found the images. I don’t really think of this person as my grief mentor - I think of her more as my future self. She is where I hope to be one day. 

Sometimes I see tiny glimmers of her. Sometimes I believe she is possible.


Popular posts from this blog

Stories

-
You write not just any story, but this story. The words you form are not just any words, they grow out of the reality of death. What is the story of the story you're in? The story I’m in feels like just that - a story. It feels as though there must have been some big mistake, a giant cosmic error. There must be some misunderstanding. This must be someone else’s life. I’m ready to file a grievance with the Universe. It must have been under the impression that I could live without her. Can you see now what you’ve done, ripping her away from me? How exactly did you think this would go? Parts of my brain keep telling me that the story is real. You were there, Jenn - remember? Remember crawling into bed next to her as she lay dying, remember feeling your heart break when they carried her body away? Remember picking out the box for her ashes, writing her obituary, delivering her eulogy? Remember that you can’t text her now, that you can’t hug her anymore, that she wasn’t there for Chri...
Read more

Grief's Voice

-
I am grief. I am small, scared, tucked away. Not small in feelings, but small because I feel powerless, because I’m so scared of what I might lose. I’m a small animal - like a hedgehog, vulnerable but prickly. I’m in hibernation, curled up into a sphere, my body wound tightly like the shell of a snail. I am terrified to move. I hide away, clinging to these precious bits of her fiercely. The world no longer feels safe anymore. I gather all my comforts around me, pulling in leaves and down and fur and bits of grass, hoping they will protect me. Knowing that they can’t. Knowing that I can’t stay here forever. I’m afraid to breathe. Afraid that every bit of movement or change means that something will be lost. If I stay here forever, can I keep her forever? If I stay here forever, can she stay here with me? I can’t endure the noise of the outside world, the light that seeps through the cracks. It is too much. It is a place I don’t belong, a place that will never feel right. I don’t know ho...
Read more

The Changed World

-
You can’t come into my world; you haven’t paid the price of entry. You aren’t permitted to step inside. You can’t know how to join me here. I wander, dazed and confused, heartbroken and angry, trying to figure out what I am supposed to do next, in what direction I am supposed to be headed. In this world, there is no peace. In this world, there is no rest. I live in this world by stumbling through it. By retreating from it. By denying that it exists. By screaming and crying and thrusting my rage upon it. I know where I live. I live in the place where she was - though it is not the same. It is a world where something will always be missing. Without her here, the light has left. Without her, things that were once familiar are now unknown. This world feels like a movie set - it looks the same, but it’s all pretend. It has no heartbeat, no life, no rhythm. It is nothing more than an illusion. I live in this world by putting on a costume and pretending it’s a “normal” day - for those times w...
Read more