A Grief Observed

It caught me by surprise. It didn’t seem real at first. Throughout the day, updates. And then, she’s gone. When I receive bad news, my first reaction is numbness. I look stoic, unbothered. Even if I’m paralyzed from focusing or functioning, externally it’s hard for others to know I’m reacting. My emotions aren’t for them. But I still feel like I have to outwardly show something, lest they think I’m heartless.

I went to adoration early. There was no one else there. I lit a candle. I prayed. I sat in the stillness and silence. I just waited. Waited to emote, cry, something. Almost. Almost a tear. But no. Frustrating, but I’m used to it. It’s more cathartic when I cry over nothing and can’t stop than when I want to and can’t.

At the funeral everyone’s crying. I still can’t. Again, I try to turn away or feign an almost-cry face so I don’t look heartless. But also I don’t want to this time. If I cry, it’ll be later, alone, probably for no related reason but I’ll use the moment for this too. I think of all the other deaths or disasters where people are emotional and crying and I’m just…there. Wishing they would stop and hating myself for wishing that.

I’m not unaffected. My grief is just internal, hidden, delayed. It’s in the excess food, the drop in productivity, the spacing out, the short patience. It’s learning about secondary PTSD and feeling like a right jerk for getting PTSD without earning it firsthand. It’s someone asking if you’re ok, honestly saying no, but adding, “I’ll just cry when I get home,” like you can control it. But you can’t. But you can drink wine under the Christmas tree trying to buzzed enough to cry (it doesn’t work, but the lights are pretty). It’s wanting to talk but not wanting to bother people and wanting to talk but not wanting people to question why you don’t sound upset when talking.

At least it’s consistent. I know the pattern. I know myself. I know not to force it and not to get frustrated at my stoic face and not to get impatient with others’ tears. Grief, when raw, is wild and unpredictable. We all grieve differently, at different times, for different parts of what we’ve lost. I don’t wail; I observe. I don’t feel; I feel nothing. I would love to choose a sudden outburst over a week of repressed bad habits, but choosing defeats the whole point of it being a reaction.

I watch others grieve too, each different. Usually some outward emoting, but also the numbness, the nonfunctioning, the hyperfocusing, the impatience, the selfishness, the unhealthy coping comforts. We’re not ok. We’re not ok together, but we’re not ok each in our own way too. It’s a lonely journey, even when others are on the same road.

It still doesn’t seem real. I keep thinking of things to tell her before I remember. I feel fine and then, suddenly, not. I stare at blank pages and blank screens and can’t force words. I have sugar headaches. I marked her off my Christmas card list last week. Her address and birthday stay in my address book, though, with all the others I’ve tried to cry over.