This is A LOT.
I see so many instances mental unhealth, heartbreak, distraught romanticized in the media and social media.
Let me set the record straight.
Tears don't always come the moment you realize a loss. Sometimes, they do. When it is absolute. Like the time I learned I lost my Oma or my dog Gina, I was near instantly overcome with intense anxiety and sadness. It was hard to breathe.
But other times, like this loss...it waits. It builds. You know the loss isn't absolute, but there is a loss.
The subject might not be lost to the world, but the subject is lost to you, seemingly for ever. You wait. You ponder.
Where is your place in the loss.
Could you have prevented it?
Can you make it easier?
No matter what in the end, a piece of you and the subject is lost forever. An idea you held on so dearly. A feeling. Hope. Love.
Loss. It waits. It builds.
You recite the story over and over, sometimes becoming teary-eyed, but never breaking.
You drive, triggered along the way, vision blurs, but never enough to slow you.
You feel, a building depth inside your being, welling up, taking up so much space, but nowhere to go.
You carry it with you. The weight. Day to day, interaction to interaction. Hoping it goes unnoticed. Maybe it does, in some instances.
It does not feel unnoticed. The weight is real. You feel it. Swelling. Like a dam. That won't break. Just...release. You say "I'm ready" or "I have time now, go!" but it won't.
Grief does not operate on your logistic, convenient terms.
This is grief.
This is loss.
It hides behind a coping façade.
"I'm having a hard time" you say through tearless eyes.
"I'm doing okay" you say through calm, collected breaths.
You look fine.
You feel okay,
after a while.
Time passes.
"Okay I got this, let's move forward"
The song hits you in the gut.
This time its
can't get it out - Brand New (problematic, I'm aware)
Yes.
Someone knows the damn. Dam.
Eyes water. Okay.
Nose starts to run. I guess we're ugly crying now.
Hide and Seek - Imogen Heap (but the Amber Run cover so the lyrics hit different)
Hyperventilate. Suffocating. Gasp for air, frantically.
You know this...You've been here before. Acute loss.
Realization. Nothing will be as it was.
Comfort in another... gone.
You've been waiting.
"Come at me tears"
Be cathartic. Free me.
You've forgotten what entails a good sob.
Snotty nose. Can't breathe.
Desire to calm.
Desire to see it through and let it,
do what it needs. What you need.
Imagine a paper bag.
Now you know why you've seen them in comics or TV.
Slow. Down.
You imagine the bag sucked in against your nose a lips rapidly. Panic.
Was this the point? To make you feel suffocated?
No. The point is to help regain control.
You control the bag, you control your breath.
In for 1...2...3...4
Out for 1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8
That's what school, etc have taught me.
Slow down your out-breath. Worry less about IN.
OUT controls the parasympathetic nervous system.
You slow down. You feel okay.
Okay, let's carry on.
Big Black Heart–Better Oblivion Community Center
Do you deserve calm right now? How is the subject? Do they ache?
You know others have ached like you ache.
Tears for them. All.
You can't possibly be calm already.
The hurt can't be this small.
Just a few minutes? A song?
No.
You let your paper bag be caught in the wind out a window.
You have not hurt enough, through your lungs.
Chest.
There is still hurt stored. Like batteries.
Waiting to be used.
Okay.
"Come at me while I'm hot"
"I got this"
And you mean it, this time.
You can stop it anytime you want.
All you need is a paper bag.
In your mind.
Hyperventilate again.
Claw at your arms.
Good thing you just trimmed your nails.
Dig in, but don't leave marks.
Claw/grab at your ribcage like you're trying to free your lungs.
Escape.
From this bone prison. Person.
Let it out. Yell. Let it outside you.
Give it to the universe,
so that,
it may find
who needs to know it's okay.
Okay to feel and act unhinged when you are safe.
Okay to sob or ugly cry until you literally can't breathe because for days, weeks, or months, it has already felt like you couldn't
anyways.
Wait it out. Like a storm.
Collect, breathe, take a break.
Cry. Sob again. Hyperventilate.
Collect.
Not like a storm,
you CAN control this.
You get to have this time.
If you are lucky, it will wait.
Until it is "socially acceptable"
Until you have privacy.
In the evening.
Alone.
When just the right songs come on in succession.
Like the universe knows–and it does–what you need.
Well heck. I'm here to say you don't need to be alone.
You don't need privacy, if you can't get it–to feel grief.
And heck, you shouldn't have to wait for privacy.
Sadness. Grief. Loss.
These are human.
"Coping" day to day...or "functioning" as society would prefer you to...
Shut it down. Out.
Move along now.
Forward.
You got this.
Distract.
Whatever means possible.
I'm here to show my ugly crying self.
Share how ugly loss and grief really is.
How ugly it is, and how privacy makes it uglier.
Hiding behind a mask that you're "fine" shuts people out.
People who want to support.
People who want to see your grief and hold space for it.
People who feel it bottled up, feel a damn dam.
Where is the release?
It will come when it does. We have no real say.
We can contain it for a time, but it has to go,
and it should. Go.
Calming your breathing is good. The paper bag helps. Regain your blood oxygen level.
Think.
Do I need more?
Do I have more to unload?
Is there more I'm willing to let go at this time?
Sometimes it's a yes. Sometimes no.
But if it comes knocking on your soul's door,
I hope you embrace it, give it space.
Grief needs space.
Hiding, minimizing does no favors.
Let it roar, so that it does not become
displaced
in anger
at others.
Give yourself the compassion to let it out
like you would an upset child, friend.
It is not pretty, but it does leave you feeling
lighter
unburdened or
less burdened.
And maybe, just maybe, your expression of grief will reach another person energetically to do the same.
Maybe someone who is attached or connected to your grief, so they can let it go too.
Or maybe, a random soul who just needs that
extra push
to know it's okay.
You're not alone.
