Grief is a Tidal Wave
Dear Unconditional Love - What would you have me know today about grief?
It’s ok, my love. I know this is so hard for you. You don’t want to be talking about grief because you want to be done with it. You want to have gone through all the grief you’ve needed to go through. Or if you have to go through grief again you want to have already built all the skills you need during past grief to really ace grief the next time.
I know it’s so hard, babe. I get it. I’m with you.
That grief feeling is like a tidal wave. It floods your home, your heart, everything. It is so overwhelming, yes, because it’s so heavy, but also because no one else can see that everything in your home is fucking soaking wet. They ask you about other things, they try to make it better. But it’s infuriating when they walk into your water soaked home and ask you about other things.
You want to shout, “DON’T YOU SEE THE SOAKING WET CABINETS AND THE WATER DRIPPING FROM THE CEILING AND THE SOAKING WET BLANKETS WE CAN NO LONGER USE?!”
It’s so obvious to you, and it’s so offensive when people ignore the water. You didn’t forget there was water all over your home. How could you? You’re wet.
It’s so hard for you that people don’t talk to you about Hope very often. You know they don’t want to make you sad or maybe they’re uncomfortable with bringing her up or don’t know how. But you didn’t forget that she died. You think about her all the time. You grieve her constantly. When people at the park ask if Smooshy is your only child. It’s so insulting. They ask with no ill intentions and yet ill intentions are had. It’s yucky. So gross. You’re soaking wet and they can’t see you.
It doesn’t matter how close or far away someone is to you. Stranger or best companion. They are not soaking wet like you are. Their clothes are dry. And it’s infuriating. I’m so sorry grief has been so hard for you, my love. It feels constant. You’re always holding it. And you just want to put it down.
And yes, the therapists tell you, “just put it on the shelf and come back to it” but you fucking know it’s there. Instead of the grief following you around directly it’s just the shelf with grief on it following you around now. Which feels more heavy because a shelf + grief is heavier than grief itself. It’s just math. And really, it’s just life.
When people ignore what you’re feeling, it feels heavier. Because you have to hold it alone.
Your birthday without your daughter will be hard. And it will be no less glorious with all these people around you that love you. I know you know that. And you want to make sure other people know how grateful you are. You don’t want to burden them with how hard it is.
It’s why you’re tired this week, my love. It’s why you want to be alone.
Go be with Hope. Go paint together. Go nap together. You don’t have to go outside where the sun is taunting you. And the mosquitoes, too.
Practice listening to the whispers from us this week. When you hear them, you’ll know we see you. We know you’re soaking wet. We know you are because we’re swimming in the ocean too, so our clothes are always soaked.
And yes, sometimes grief DOES feel like swimming with clothes on that you can’t take off (like Dan Levy wrote). That’s true. And sometimes the way to get through that is to know other people are also swimming with their clothes on.
There’s nothing crazy about you or your feelings. You don’t have to explain them, you don’t have to defend them. You just have to BE.
Stay there my love. Go get some water. Fuel the ocean as you fill up with what you’re swimming in so you don’t drown. We’re here with you. It’s Butterfly stroke today. We can do this. We love you.
Grief is lonely like the dark. It also illuminates shadows you never would have seen before. A portal opened when Hope died. Keep it open for as long as you can, my love.