Sometimes I feel that on any average day my head and heart are like random college roommates. They coexist. They respect space but cross boundaries. When one is trying to sleep the other is going strong on four cups of coffee. They rarely listen to each to other but politely nod to show a mutual respect. When a person deals with grief, it is an unspoken moment between the head and the heart to become something more than residents sharing space. Their emotions fluctuate on how they grieve. They try to rise together in attempt to salvage any damage, except they do not rise all at once. They fall flat and then spiral sideways, until they lose perception of where they once started.
I have been to many funerals in my short 19 years of life. It is not something I want to put on a resume, but I feel I almost have a better understanding of people. I recognize that there are many variables that go into mourning loss. Each funeral is different. I have seen lines of grieving relatives and friends wait for hours to approach a casket; I also have seen a room of only twelve people sitting and sharing the silence. Some shriek with pain while others prefer keeping their eyes glued to the ground. And it is all because the concept of death is uncomfortable to approach.
The thing about grief is that it sneaks up on you. It cannot be measured and predicted by time. It varies for each person. For me, it has clung to my core, attached itself like a prosthetic to my head and heart. It should not be ignored nor should it be picked apart. Grief and I, well, we coexist.
I have seen it manipulate the most indestructible people in my life. The ones who have been through the most shit but still somehow manage to not only keep their own heads above water, but they make sure everyone around them is floating too. Even those people get tired of treading water.
I think one of the most challenging obstacles to overcome, at least in my experience, is that it is not a monster that sulks in the night. No, grief loves the light. Days and darkness are interwoven into one dreadful stage that grief dances on.
I cannot find a resolution that will begin to satisfy even myself. But I think that is the thing to remember – there isn’t going to be a resolution.
Maybe grief has deteriorated apart of me I cannot fix, but instead of trying to find remedies to mend the damage, I find strength in the broken pieces. Because they are just pieces. They still are apart of me, which makes me whole.
I am not my grief, but I am not anything less than what my grief has put me through.