The Practical Free Spirit

I am grieving.

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I dive right into the morass of emotions. This is my way. I don’t want to stifle it or pretend it isn’t there. I find numbness disturbing. I sometimes allow myself to be distracted because conserving energy is important, but this is not my primary concern.

I carry on with the essential daily tasks. I eat, I shower, I sleep. I take care of the little dog. This is always a weird part of grief, this continuation of life. It feels like everything should stop, but of course it never does. Knowing this, I do what I must do without complaint, but also without much attention.

Mostly, I feel. This grief is a palpable physical experience. My temperature fluctuates. I’m breathing normally, but I sometimes feel like I’m not getting enough oxygen. There is a knot between my breasts that won’t go away. A scattered panicky feeling lurks at the back of my awareness. I burst into tears unexpectedly, or I would do except no tears are actually unexpected right now. I wander around my apartment, and then I sit, and then I wander around my apartment, and then I sit again. I feel like I could do this all day.

I exist underneath a heavy blanket that makes the world seem muted and every action and decision seem more effortful than usual. The loss comes in waves that take my breath away.

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Photo Credit: ecstaticist via Compfight cc

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I don’t want to be alone. In this physical experience I’m having, the only thing I’m sure I want is physical contact. Hands holding my hands, arms wrapped around me, my hair being stroked. It reminds me that I’m still here, and it reminds me that I’m not alone. My brain is more convinced by touch than it is by anything else.

I want to be alone. My grief is still raw, and I think it will make other people uncomfortable. I don’t want to have to pretend it’s not happening. Just hold me and hold me and hold me, and remind me to eat. But I feel like that’s asking a lot.

I have no masks to offer you today.

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I want to feel this way. I wouldn’t feel differently if I had the choice. My grief is a celebration of the life of someone who mattered to me. My grief is an expression of love. My grief is a gift that I offer gladly.

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I wanted to write something about Jay Lake today. This isn’t what I sat down to write, but this is what I have right now. I might have something else later.

But this is still about Jay. Because my grief is for him, and because I am writing publicly about grief for him. For years he wrote unflinching accounts of his experience as a cancer patient. He talked about the things we’re not supposed to talk about, and he did so in service of others.

We’re not supposed to talk about grief either. But grief is a natural part of life. It’s here, whether we like it or not. It is something we all must face.

There is no right way to grieve. It comes as it comes. All we can do is accept it when it arrives.

So I eat, and I sleep, and I feel grateful for what I have.

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I am grieving.