The thing about grief is that it's not the big moments that are the hardest. The big moments are hard, and they are painful, but the smaller moments eat away at you, settle deep within your stomach and just serve as a reminder that the person you love most in the world isn't within your reach right now.
I wake up (when I actually sleep, and sometimes it's hard, because sometimes I dream about her and waking up from those is like waking up being doused in hot and cold water simultaneously), and I almost don't remember for a few seconds - but then I become more lucid and it hits me: oh yeah, Mom isn't here anymore. She's not down the hall in her room.
When I stayed up too late, Mom would sometimes come and check on me and scare the wits out of me when she hissed "What are you doing up, go to sleep, it's three in the morning." There is no one to do that now, but I still find myself looking at my doorway, waiting for her to appear and to click her tongue at me, tell me to get off my computer and go to sleep.
I put on a good show. I smile, I laugh. I go to the movies, I go to visit friends, I write, I draw, I eat good food (sort of). Almost everyone who was at the funeral and the open house told me how strong I was, how brave I was, how glad they were that I was smiling and laughing.
But that's the easy part. That's the part of me that is just going through the motions. The rest of me is steeped within a sadness so stark that sometimes I find it hard to even breathe. It happens at the most random times: I take a picture, I think of Mom, and I start crying. I go to shampoo my hair, and I remember out of the blue that I won't get to call Mom and tell her about the apartment I might be looking at. I watch a movie, eat a bite of rice, and suddenly I can't stop crying because I remember that time that Mom used to play with my hair and how I'd bother her every night when we talked to play with my hair.
Sometimes I think I am going forward, and I'm excited about the prospect of moving. I can't wait to be in a place of my own, to decorate things, to put all of my touches on the walls and the windows and the shelves.
Sometimes I am absolutely terrified of living on my own, by myself, in a new place that I've never been before. I can't comprehend it, because I've never experienced it. I make mistakes, say dumb things, do stupid things, things I shouldn't do because it's just so much easier to pretend that I've got it all under control, when really I don't. I'm great at keeping up this facade of holding it all together, but really underneath I am just a giant, tangled mess of confusion.
People don't seem to get that being called "strong" is a positive, but it's also a weight to bear. I feel like that's all people see, and that's all they expect, that's all they are capable of seeing. It's mostly my fault; as a private, shy introvert underneath it all, I don't like to let people see that side of me, so the only thing that's visible is apparently that "strong" side. But I've had depression and anxiety since I was fifteen; I took medication for it all the way through college, until I lost my health insurance. I know what it feels like to be depressed and anxious and worry about every little detail of every little thing. Being called "strong" is a good thing, but it's also painful because sometimes I forget that I don't have to be strong all the time. I don't have to pretend.
This is grief, though. This is all of that wrapped up in a mess of emotions that I just want to tamp down, put in a box, and be able to understand and grow and move past.
I don't think I'll ever get over the grief, but like Mom said when we lost my stepfather: "Grief does not get easier, but it gets easier to bear."
I'm still waiting for the "easier to bear" part.
No comments:
Post a Comment