Did I get your hopes up with that one? We're foolish if we think we can manage grief. Clearly, it manages us. You'd think that the more grief you experience, the more you would understand it and know how to navigate its waters. But with every loss, grief changes. And the tides are different every day...in fact, sometimes shifting from minute to minute.
D's death devastated me. It wasn't, initially, a tidal wave, or a flood, or any kind of storm--I was simply in the middle of the ocean, drowning. Every once in awhile I seemed to hit an air pocket and manage to get a breath, and slowly, over the course of a year, I started to surface. The second year brought me back to land--but with frequent, unannounced tsunamis of grief. It was exhausting. Then my brother left, as always disapproving of my life choices and again as always choosing to simply disappear from my life for however long he deemed appropriate. That was a grief that I didn't have the energy to even deal with, as it was such a frequent one--a constant drip that erodes the ground below. This time, I simply turned off the spigot and walked away.
I had a little reprieve for a couple of years, then my 14yo pup died--my little protector--and another piece of my heart died with him. But the grief was manageable, most often coming in gentle waves that rolled over me. I was lucky to have B, who spent the first few days at my house after Loki's death--not bothering me or interfering in my grief, but just doing his own thing, and being there when I needed to cry and be held. But then, 9 months later, B died. For the first three weeks it was a monsoon. My grief itself was simply loneliness, loss of my companion, my best friend, the person with whom I talked every day, and with whom I was able to maintain some sort of human physical connection. But two members of Bs family created a great deal of drama, turning gentle grief into a very different kind of storm, and taking away from the experience of grief itself. I was soon very ready to walk away from that, and I did. The sun came out. And suddenly, I felt relief. And joy. And exhilaration. Life was about...living!! It had been years since I'd experienced that.
My little Samson, my companion of 16 years, joined me on my journey back to dry land and sunshine. Because he required medications every 8-12 hours, sometimes more frequently, and this had been going on for 6 years, we were inseparable. He slept between my legs every night. He was my sidekick, my sounding board, my walking buddy, my physical comfort. And then he left, too. He earned freedom from this life, this body that became too small for his huge spirit. But he left me, nonetheless. And I'm still here. And I feel like I am drowning again...but this time, I have felt much less need to resurface. No pups to care for or do life with. No partner or companion. No best friend like B. No-one who can provide me with physical connection that reminds me that I'm alive.
An acquaintance told me a couple of days ago that I need to "get out of the house and do something you like to do. Now is the time to break out of old patterns." How ironic, that these words come from another introvert, who should know the anxiety that getting out of the house means. His words really piss me off--why should I add anxiety to grief?! Easy for him to say, but is he providing any support in this? (No.) Except maybe he's right. Dammit. So...let's see if I can manage to surface and ride the current, instead of swimming against it, and see where it takes me.
Thanks to amazing photographer Terra Kate for creating disturbingly beautiful and surreal images that speak to me!