I am a reasonably intelligent person. I know, I know, that I am not the only person in the world experiencing grief, even at this moment. Recent tragedies in the news belie any suggestion I may have had otherwise. I also know that I am by far not the first daughter to lose her mother, and my father is not the first husband to lose his wife. But what I don’t understand, despite my reasonable intelligence, is how it gets better.
I wrote a post on Facebook the other night and promptly deleted it, for several reasons. First and foremost, it sounded like a cry for attention, and despite these frequent blogs and my frequent Facebook posts, I am wary of crying for attention. On the one hand, I want everyone with me. I want to be surrounded by their love and companionship; their comfort is my strength. On the other hand, I want everyone to LEAVE ME ALONE. Why can’t they see how much hurt I’m in? How much pain? Why would they bother trying to get me out of my house, or into a shower and real clothes? Can’t they see? Don’t they know?
The second reason I deleted my Facebook post was because I am assured that everyone is tired of me and my aching by now. Granted, I have no evidence for this, and in fact, have ample evidence to the contrary. But certainly, certainly after two and a half months, no one wants to hear me grieving and whinging anymore. Right?
And the third reason, the strongest one, I think, is that writing is, for me, doing no good whatsoever. It’s not cathartic. It’s not pain-relieving. It does nothing but make me retrospective, and at a time like this, I am damned if I want to be more retrospective than I already am.
But, it was an honest question, so I will repeat it here:
Isn’t this supposed to get easier at some goddamn point?
It’s the question that is foremost on my mind every day. When, God, when does this get easier? I know people survive loss every second of every day, and many go on to live their quite full lives. Parents lose children, siblings lose each other, children lose their parents, spouses lose their partners, friends lose friends. But shouldn’t it get better at some moment in time? Is there a magical moment when it does?
I have been wallowing. I know that. I’ve not read for pleasure in two and a half months; I’ve not written creatively during that time as well. My professional work, with the exception of my summer course, has been put to the wayside. So, I’ve given myself a deadline.
And that deadline is tonight.
After tonight, beginning tomorrow morning, I am forcing myself back into my world. I don’t care if I have to drag myself kicking and screaming into a book, but I’ll do it. I have a To Do List ready and waiting, and many, many syllabi to plan and books to read. I may hate every minute of it, but I have to do this.
I have to.