Ugly, Unproductive Grief

An attempt at writing a space into being where I can feel the sides of my grief that I generally try to overwrite

I have noticed that I have tendency of trying to optimize my emotional functioning and to overwrite the "unproductive" sides of it, by pushing myself to see the silver lining before I am actually emotionally ready to do so.

Is it a result of growing up in a society that has placed such an emphasis on being effective and productive all the time? I notice I seem drawn to jump directly to the end result, to gather the fruits before I have even gone through the experience that makes those fruits grow in the first place.

And now I am learning this, through a process of grief.

In my last piece of writing, I wanted to jump directly to the part where I can be appreciative of death for reminding me about the beauty of life. And in a way, by writing it out, I did manage to remind myself of that.

But, alas, I still have to feel the grief too, and it's "uglier" sides that seem to come through emotions such as anger and regret. And tears. Just lots of tears.

So in this piece of writing I want to even the scales, to also make space for the grief that can't be wrapped into a neat little package.

At the same time, I have to acknowledge how this piece of writing is just another symbol of that same paradox, as was the previous piece and perhaps all the stories I tell: I seem to simultaneously experience life, and observe myself experiencing it. And then I wonder, is this observant meta-perspective hindering me from actually just experiencing and feeling it? But, then again, if I wouldn't be observing it, would I learn as much? Those are the kinds of loops my mind goes around in.

Maybe my writing or storytelling is a place where some of those loops are laid bare so that they exert less of a pressure in my mind? It is a process of externalisation. And the same is somehow being done with my emotions. Or am I just fooling myself? Is this piece of writing just an illusion that a grief-stricken mind is holding onto, a desperate attempt to make sense of a death that came as a surprise? A way for my mind to keep me busy and try to distract me from actually just feeling it?

Whatever the reason, I seem to have a need to write this, so I will. And now, after these rounds in the carrousel of my mind, I'll try to leave some space for my emotions, for whatever comes up.

The blanket feels rough and heavy and dark over my shoulders. I realize that this is what this particular grief feels like and that this isn't a blanket that I can just shake off with force. I have to carry it until it is through with me, or until I'm through with it.

The blanket is slightly damp, the damp of sweating through sleepless nights

and the rain on the windshield as we drove through the countryside those years back.

While we drove, we were talking, but only a little bit. Silence felt normal with her, and between us it stretched out comfortably, and provided a backdrop to the words that sparkled sparsely but all the more strongly against it.

She shared about her own memories from maternity leave, when her husband went to work and she stayed home alone with the baby, mournfully gazing out through the window.

In just a few words she managed to express something about that experience that I wouldn't find the words for until years later. I felt seen then, in a way that I would only later learn was unique. I wouldn't understand it until she was already gone. And then that realization would hit me like a bolt from the blue. And the loss that came with it.

Some things you just can't fully realize until they are gone.

The deer jumps over the road in front of me as I'm driving back home from my medical appointment. There is no traffic on this countryside road so I stop the car and follow it with my eyes. Strangely, the deer is doing the same. It stops on the field and looks straight at me. Our eyes meet, for what feels like an eternity. Or a pocket of time outside of time. It feels like the deer can see me, truly and fully, the way that she could. It feels like the deer wants to tell me that it is seeing my grief. In being witnessed by the deer I am also seeing myself. And then the moment passes, the deer runs on, and I drive back home.

But something lifts then, for a moment. The blanket is still heavy but there are some holes in it, and I can see there is life on the other side. But I'm not there yet. And now I know that I'm not meant to be. I'm only ever meant to be where I am, and I'll arrive at the next place when it's time.

This realization frustrates me. But it also comforts me. It can be both.

Just as she was frustrating, and bitter, but also loyal, practical and surprisingly funny at times, with a dry kind of humor and a sensitivity that could be easily missed unless you paid attention.

But what do I know? Or think I know? I wasn't a big part of her life, really, I was living too far away and too busy all the time, what with my new family and baby and all the projects

Projects schmojects

They feel like dust in my hands now

What's the point?

I never managed to invite her to visit us in Tallinn, or she didn't manage to come or we just didn't manage to

Too shy too scared of being a bother, too worried of seeming pushy, why didn't I tell her she's always welcome? But sometimes, even if you tell, it doesn't mean the other person can receive the words

Or maybe I just didn’t prioritize her enough

Too busy,

and then it’s suddenly too late.

I'm angry for this blanket. I had planned this time to be different, this precious time to work on things, to get them done before the baby comes and now I just end up writing this instead, from underneath the scratchy old blanket and bursting to tears when I should be able to play with my child

There we go again, all rise, behold, the judge is in session, the judge in my mind telling me I'm either not grieving enough or grieving too much or not feeling the right things at all

Just,

Feel.

Why is that the hardest thing to do?

What does that even mean at this point? I've gone "too far" in both directions: drowning in emotions, and totally denying them. Why is the balance so hard to find?

Feeling = Crying rivers of tears

Feeling = Sticking on the stone face and swallowing my tears, so that I can focus on making breakfast for my child, or compliment them for going on the potty

Feeling = Angry outburst after I swallowed the tears too long

Feeling = Some kind of a peace after writing this and admitting these sides of my experience

Feeling = The bittersweet knowing that this peace won't last for long

Feeling = [insert whatever comes next]

Feeling = [and next]

Feeling = [and next]

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