The Sharpness of Grief
Sometimes I choose suffering. I polish and shine my quills. I choose to stay isolated, to build up my walls, to put up my prickly gates. I get angry at people when they have their own obligations, their own wants, their own joys.
I don’t articulate my needs, and then get furious at other people for not anticipating them. I see everything that they are doing to support me, and then get angry for all the ways that they fall short. I know that, no matter how much they do, it will never be enough. They will never be able to bring my sister back. There are not enough phone calls and casseroles and care packages in the world to fill the cavernous hole in my heart.
I don’t know that I expect myself to behave any better. What I expect is for the world to behave better. What I want is for everyone to turn and see this gaping hole in my life, this burning fire, and to look at it with horror. I want them to know that this could happen to them. I want them to feel what I feel.
But I also know it’s not their job to sit day after day, hour after hour, with this pain. That job is mine alone.
And so where does that leave me?
Should I behave better? To what end? So I can betray my own heart? So I can pretend my feelings don’t exist, so I can play the game of making other people more comfortable? So I can act as though my sister was never here, that the central relationship of my life was nothing more than a dream?
I’m not interested in behaving better. I put up my sharp edges because I want people to feel them. I want people to remember that this isn’t okay, to know that I won’t retreat silently into pretending that I’m “fine.” I won’t let them forget that my sister is dead. I won’t let them pretend that she didn’t exist.
Is it behaving badly to tell the truth? We are all so lonely because we are playing pretend. We think we are the only ones in pain.
Could we all give each other the gift of permission to behave badly? To know that we are held and loved, even when we are prickly and sharp? To know that the way that we feel isn’t wrong? To know that we aren’t alone?
I know the soft places are still there. I can feel them; I know they are waiting for me. Sometimes I can pull back my quills and can rest in them. Sometimes I am so grateful for them. I know that over time things will soften, that I will find ways to move forward without having to pull out all my sharp bits.
But right now those sharp points feel like the truth. They feel like misguided remnants of my love. The best way I know to be kind to myself in the midst of this pain is to let those sharp points be expressed, to let myself be true.
I don’t articulate my needs, and then get furious at other people for not anticipating them. I see everything that they are doing to support me, and then get angry for all the ways that they fall short. I know that, no matter how much they do, it will never be enough. They will never be able to bring my sister back. There are not enough phone calls and casseroles and care packages in the world to fill the cavernous hole in my heart.
I don’t know that I expect myself to behave any better. What I expect is for the world to behave better. What I want is for everyone to turn and see this gaping hole in my life, this burning fire, and to look at it with horror. I want them to know that this could happen to them. I want them to feel what I feel.
But I also know it’s not their job to sit day after day, hour after hour, with this pain. That job is mine alone.
And so where does that leave me?
Should I behave better? To what end? So I can betray my own heart? So I can pretend my feelings don’t exist, so I can play the game of making other people more comfortable? So I can act as though my sister was never here, that the central relationship of my life was nothing more than a dream?
I’m not interested in behaving better. I put up my sharp edges because I want people to feel them. I want people to remember that this isn’t okay, to know that I won’t retreat silently into pretending that I’m “fine.” I won’t let them forget that my sister is dead. I won’t let them pretend that she didn’t exist.
Is it behaving badly to tell the truth? We are all so lonely because we are playing pretend. We think we are the only ones in pain.
Could we all give each other the gift of permission to behave badly? To know that we are held and loved, even when we are prickly and sharp? To know that the way that we feel isn’t wrong? To know that we aren’t alone?
I know the soft places are still there. I can feel them; I know they are waiting for me. Sometimes I can pull back my quills and can rest in them. Sometimes I am so grateful for them. I know that over time things will soften, that I will find ways to move forward without having to pull out all my sharp bits.
But right now those sharp points feel like the truth. They feel like misguided remnants of my love. The best way I know to be kind to myself in the midst of this pain is to let those sharp points be expressed, to let myself be true.