I am no stranger to fear. Anxiety has made a nest inside my heart for as long as I can remember. Even so, grief has a way of exponentially increasing that. A supposed firm and stable foundation is now shaken. What had always been is no more and that sense of security is gone.
Grief is scary. In my most honest and hardest moments, I can admit that I am terrified. Grief does not abide by a schedule. It does not debrief. It does not warn. It simply invades. It digs up emotions and threatens to undo. Grief today looks different than grief tomorrow. Nothing is certain with grief, it seems. It is a raging monster that is not tamed. And that is frightening.
Questions race through my head:
What if the grief is worse in three months?
What if it affects my ability to do school, Resident Assistant duties, community life?
What if I am not giving myself the proper time and place to grieve?
What if I am stuffing my emotions?
What if I forget her? Her voice? What she taught me?
What if our family never feels 'normal' again?
Will this blaring hole in our hearts always feel so massive?
Grief has some odd side effects that are perhaps unexpected. I forget everything. No joke, I sometimes forget the names of my friends. The names of people I have known for a long time. I forget details.
Also, I feel drained most of the time. I love what I do. But it is so draining to process through grief. To talk about grief. To explain grief. I need to talk about it. So I do. But it takes so much more energy than is in my tank most of the time. People always say at some point in the conversation, "...enough about me, I want to know about you..." I dread this, because I struggle to put my chaotic and unkempt emotions and thoughts into words. And I hate it. Because, try as I might, I cannot put them into words well. Having a lack of words is frustrating. I am not loud, but I seldom lack the words to express myself. This is one of those times that words simply do not do justice to what is in my heart.
Right now especially, a break from thinking about, processing or talking about grief is refreshing. And yet, being asked about it gives a permission to share my story. Both permission to speak, and permission not to speak are needed. My roommate is a champ at this. She is heaven sent.
So I leave with many more questions than answers. Not having resolved much of anything, but simply knowing that perhaps leaving with questions is what spurs conversation and community. And maybe questions and unfinished thoughts are alright. Maybe fear and processing is a crucial part of the journey.
Maybe we're not meant to be finished yet...
