Letter From a Stubborn Grieving Person
I’m sorry I’ve been distant
To the people I love,
I know I’ve been distant since my parents died. You already know why that is. It’s because I’m prideful. It’s because I’m stubborn. It’s because I refuse to let myself feel weak. It’s because I don’t want to burden you. It’s because part of me wants to preserve the sacredness of my grief by keeping it to myself.
I can’t continue doing all these things if I let myself be open with you, precisely because I trust you. I’ve been wondering how to let you in when I know your love has the power to stop me from being as avoidant as I sometimes like to be. I’ve been wondering a lot of things…
How am I supposed to talk about it without the protective blanket of morbid humor?
How can I admit that after almost a year, I haven’t fully admitted to myself that they’re never coming back?
How am I supposed to tell you about the times when I clutch the box that holds my dad’s ashes and whisper through tears “please come back… please come back… just for five minutes…”
How am I supposed to say that I keep watching my mom suffer and die again in my nightmares, when I so desperately want to forget?
You might say that I don’t have to tell you these kinds of details if I don’t want to. But once I start speaking honestly, how am I supposed to close the floodgates?
How can say that I haven’t been able to look at my mom’s artwork; to explain why its beauty makes me sad?
How can I describe an emptiness that can’t be filled by 4–5 hours of exercise in a day?
How can I bear the hollowness of telling you things I want more than anything to tell my dad?
How am I supposed to explain that I’m different now, when I don’t fully understand how?
How am I supposed to shed my armor of solitude? How can I let go of the strange comfort it brings, knowing it’s the same armor my dad wore his whole life?
How can I summon the patience to grieve without an agenda; without tying it to some other goal? Without having something to prove?
How am I supposed to communicate logically about the emotional whiplash of grieving both parents at the same time?
How can I show you (and myself) the guilt I carry for grieving them in different ways?
How can I listen to you tell me to stop being so hard on myself when I don’t want to hear it?
How am I supposed to admit that I don’t have all the answers? That I don’t always know how to cope?
What will happen when I loosen my grip after strangling my grief for so long? Where will it go when I’m no longer holding it down?
How am I supposed to reassure you that despite all of this, I’m okay? How am I supposed to convey that I’ve never doubted my ability to continue living a fulfilled and meaningful life?
How am I supposed to show you that your love makes me stronger than I could ever be on my own? That I cherish it every day, even when I don’t show it?
How can I atone for the ways I’ve let you down; for neglecting certain priorities because I’ve become singularly focused on the ones that allow me to cope in solitude?
I may not have all the answers, but I’m ready to start trying. I’ll start by simply saying that I love you.
I wish to weep
but sorrow is
stupid.
I wish to believe
but belief is a
graveyard.
— Charles Bukowski
