January 12, 2018
Today's Writing Your Grief assignment was to give voice to your grief, to personify it as a character.
Who are you? Tell me who you are.
I'm afraid. I'm so afraid to let go. I feel locked in a kind of rigidity, a frame, a grid, because I don't know what will happen outside of it. Something I can't stop. Something I can't control. And what if it's too much? What if ... what if? I can't even articulate, can't go there, can't imagine, can't visualize, can't. It's too overwhelming, scary, enormous.
Who are you? Tell me who you are.
This can't have been the reason I wanted to be a writer from the age of six. It's too unbelievably cruel to have prepared me my entire life and then to have TAKEN MY SON so I would have something to write about.
Who are you? Tell me who you are.
I'm like you. I'm trying to look like I have myself together. I'm going through the regular motions because I have NO IDEA what else to do. How can I embark upon a different path now, when everything is unknown? I've got to stick to who I am, who I have been, as much as I can, because otherwise who will I be? How will I know how to be that person?
Who are you? Tell me who you are.
I am every fear you've ever had. Every nightmare. I'm ocean waves crashing over your head. I'm endless staircases in twisted creepy mansions. I'm being followed, chased, gained upon. I'm the exam for the course you thought you dropped but didn't. I'm your parents getting divorced. Your husband having an affair. Your mom disappearing into dementia. I'm you all alone with no one on your side.
Who are you? Tell me who you are.
I'm small but I carry a lot of weight. I'm beautiful but off-putting. I have a wall up but I peer over it and think of inviting someone in. I have the ability to engulf you and sweep you away, never to be seen again. At least that's what I whisper threateningly in the dark.
When are you going to surrender yourself to me? Why do you fight me, ignore me, put me in a box, try to contain me? You move toward me, make an overture, but only from what seems like a safe distance. Even now, as you're writing every day, pouring yourself out onto the page, do you really see me? Feel me? Will you give in to me?
Your'e so hard on yourself. You know it. People who know you know it. You've always wanted to be perfect. Well, I'm pretty perfect, if you just give in to me. Let me take your hand. I have some things I want to show you.
What is wrong with you that you can write these things day after day and not shed a tear?
[Nothing, nothing is wrong with me. Give grace, grace in the individuality of grieving. Yes, tears are wonderful and cleansing. Maybe each tear means a step taken toward something, through something. Progress, sure. But not to exclusion. Tears are not the ONLY way. Someone who has cried more tears, who weeps and sobs every day for years on end over their lost child, is not a better griever than I am. Tears are not proof of depth of love. I think I am not detached or cold or heartless or selfish for remaining mostly dry-eyed. Maybe the words are my tears.]
Who are you? Tell me who you are.
I am always with you. I have always been with you. I will always be. We are knit, knotted together, interwoven. I'm not a parasite but a symbiont. We live together for mutual gain. You need me as much as I need you. Embrace me. I won't hurt you. You already hurt. Let me help.
Who are you? Tell me who you are.
I'm covered in scars and calluses. I'm strong from having been broken down and built back up. I see beautiful things and enjoy them. I have a sense of poignancy. I want to be put to work. I want to be tested. Give me a chance to show you all I am and all I can do. Open you eyes to me, your heart, your hands. You can trust me. We are together now and it's not possible for me to go away. So see me. Let me see you. Together we are more than you were, even if that's not what you wanted, and at a cost you never agreed to pay. I'm your grief. I'm your pain. I'm you.