House of Grief

A nonfiction essay about grief

Photo by Ann on Unsplash

Dear Readers,

Welcome. You’ve made it this far. You were intrigued and opened the message or post. You swiped or clicked it open, and decided to see what all this was about. How brave of you. You had to know it wasn’t all unicorns and kittens inside. Spoiler alert: it’s not. This essay is going to be sad, filled with dark, hopefully witty, humor, and sometimes just quiet moments. Just read the title.

I write this essay with a purpose in mind. Many struggle with Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. As a matter of fact, two years ago, my father passed away on Father’s Day morning. It was a blessing that he was free from pain, and it was a curse due to grief. I’d navigated many types of grief, but at 28, I’d been blessed to not navigate death of a parent, an entire different type of grief.

Nobody likes grief. Some of us are more comfortable with it than others, but understand, it’s not meant to be fun. Many refer to its stages, but don’t forget that ultimately it’s a cycle. Cycles don’t have one starting and ending point in a perfect line. They are cyclical and messy…just like this book. Grief wanders from room to room looking for somewhere to rest, but they can’t find one spot that fits in quite right. It always feels just out of place, like an itch they can’t reach to scratch.

When I was younger, more naive,  I didn’t understand the complexity of grief. I thought it started and stopped. It was linear…right?

I didn’t understand the many shades of blue that grief evokes, or worse yet, red as you travel the waves, let them crash over you until the water fills your lungs. Sometimes, you think you might drown, but the worst part is, you never do. You just keep hurting. I didn’t understand how bad it was to grieve.

You see, grief isn’t just about death of a person. It’s death of body. A way of life. A relationship. A dream. A career. Grief is everything. Its light. It’s dark. Morning and night. It’s the  unexpected fog on an otherwise sunny day. It’s the rainstorm in the middle of the afternoon. Its the song on the radio. It’s broken glass on the pavement that you drove around to avoid its razor like shards on your tires. Grief is the sleepless night in the pure black abyss. Grief is all we feel and think of until it’s not.

But that doesn’t mean it’s over. It likes to sneak back up. Sometimes it’s a day. Sometimes a week, or a month, or a year… but it finds its way home. Oh it does. It comes back to the House of Grief.

Grief has been even more prevalent for many in 2020 moving onward. I’ve lost a lot…

Of people.

Of health. Mental and physical.

Respect for people.

My father.

Autonomy over my own body.

Of time.

A Career.

Advocates.

Friends.

Relationships.

Dreams of future children.

Livelihood.

Credit.

Money.

Fertility.

I lost. We all lost. We mourned.

You see, I’ve lived here in the House of Grief for many years due to one thing or another. I know what rooms I’m most comfortable in and which ones to avoid. I’d welcome you, but most aren’t here for pleasure. Let me tell you about a journey. Come take the house tour with me.

Let me walk you through the rooms. Maybe we can learn more about our grief together.

You see, denial is the bathroom. We all go there, but it’s best not to linger. It’s not healthy or sanitary, but it is necessary. Denial is how we make it through the first days of grief.

Anger is the living room. I reside here while grieving. I tend to stay too long and cycle back. It’s the most comfortable room in the house for me.

Bargaining is the kitchen. We open cabinets looking for something that isn’t there. Praying it is. You just want a snack and something to quench your thirst.

Depression is the laundry room.  It’s where sorry socks live and sad old memories are discarded. No one likes laundry, but we must sort it.

Acceptance is the bedroom. It’s where you go to rest with all of it. It’s where you tuck yourself in.

So it’s over, right? You won grief! Nope. It’s a cycle so it all begins again. But it does get easier. Take comfort in that, even if nothing else. And please know, you are not alone. In the darkest moments when you think no one in the world would notice your loss, someone would. It doesn’t always feel like it or help, but know it all the same.