I feel the monster of grief again, writhing in the empty space where my heart and stomach used to be. I gasp, pressing both palms to my chest. Now the monstrous thing has its claws around my throat, squeezing my airway. I twist and put my head between my knees, breathing until the strangled feeling leaves me.
Grief is not as heavy as guilt, but it takes more away from you.
Hearing him talk about his mother, about his intact family, makes my chest hurt for a second, like someone pierced it with a needle.
People talk about the pain of grief, but I don't know what they mean. To me, grief is a devastating numbness, every sensation dulled.
It happened. It was awful. You aren't perfect. That's all there is. Don't confuse your grief with guilt.
In the days that follow, it's movement, not stillness, that helps to keep the grief at bay.
I have discovered that sitting still leaves little spaces for the grief to get in, so I stay busy.
I was angry with him before. I’m not really sure why. Maybe I was just angry that the world had become such a complicated place, that I have never known even a fraction of the truth about it. Or that I allowed myself to grieve for someone who was never really gone, the same way I grieved for my mother all the years I thought she was dead. Tricking someone into grief is one of the cruelest tricks a person can play, and it’s been played on me twice.
Tricking someone into grief is one of the cruelest tricks a person can play, and its been played on me twice.
Don't confuse your grief with guilt.
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