[EXCERPT FROM ESSAY: TODAY I ASKED MYSELF MY STORY] [I AM A WRITER, NOT A DOCTOR. CLICK TO READ MEDICAL DISCLAIMER]
[TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE, DEATH, GRIEF, VIOLENT METAPHORS]
The immediate aftermath of a death feels something like this: Briefly, when you wake up in the morning, your brain lingers between wakefulness and a dream-state, you temporarily forget the vast empty anguish you fell asleep holding, and if only for a moment, you’re free. This borrowed peace lasts until all at once you’re coherent and—BAM—you’re welcomed to full consciousness by a sucker punch of pain, a daily reckoning reminding you that every new dawn you find yourself alive is another day they’re gone. How much easier would it be to sleep forever than face the full force of reality every morning?
The expectancy is that the shock lessens over time, that at some point, the facts saturate, and you’re able to start the immediate work of grieving.
But reentry into life after trauma isn’t smooth, at least not in my case, and my recollection of events those first few days is not in focus and blurry at best. Life felt surreal, like an alternate existence where buying caskets, plotting graves, and picking out headstones were considered customary obligations. We were facing down questions like, “what flowers do we want to be displayed at the memorial?” holding them in the same mental space in which we were still asking ourselves, “why had our dad decided to kill himself three days ago?”
I wasn’t stoic and much as despondent; not brave as much as I was numb; not alive as much as I was just breathing.
…………..
Untimely death leaves people confused and, more often than not, without the right words to say. I felt like I was clinging to driftwood in the middle of the vast open water, eyeing from a distance the ship I had been surviving on for the past eighteen years willingly sink to the bottom of the ocean. Platitudes from passersby’s like, “I’m sorry for your loss,” felt so diminishing, given the circumstances. Others like, “How are you holding up?” seemed so fucking obvious—and yet, I let them motor by in their fully intact vessels, waving with one hand while I clung to my debris with the other, unsure whether I would drown or get spit out by the tide on a distant shore, but overall too numb to really care.
We were fortunate to have gleaned wisdom on this matter from a family friend and pastor, who had briefed us beforehand regarding the full gambit of sympathies we were likely to hear—some which would accurately reflect our loss and others that would feel infuriatingly tone-deaf. He advised us not to take the words at face value but instead at the intention from which they came. And so, we were armed with a handy formula to make it through the next few weeks of visitors:
‘All-the-crazy-bullshit-people-say-after-a-death’ = Love.
I was grateful to apply it; otherwise, it would have been easy to become offended—to unsparingly bring the sledgehammer of cold, hard facts down on an ignorant bystander who naively told me, “It was just his time.”
The only words that ever truly made a difference amid all the confusion were, “I love you, and I’m here for you.” They were essentially a buoy at a time when I could hardly be convinced to keep my head above water, conveying simply, “You are loved, and you are not alone.” Fewer words have ever made a bigger impact in the isolating waters of tragedy.
I understood, however, that the stigma of suicide made people nervous, and in the whole scheme of things, saying the wrong thing was so much better than saying nothing at all. I grew weariest from those who remained silent. From those who stared in the grocery store only to avert their eyes and sprint away. From those who would stop and talk to me but do a transparent, silly dance around the subject. From the hushed conversations that preceded any room I walked into.
Admittedly, I didn’t always know how to respond—how much information was appropriate to divulge whenever a stranger or casserole crusader would corner me and ask how I was doing; I was still in such shock for at least the first two months after he passed. The event and all the facts hung in the air, suspended ominously above my head so that while I could look and acknowledge they were there—had happened— I couldn’t yet feel their gravity. I became accustomed to answering only the questions asked of me. “How are you doing today?” elicited a, “I’m okay (never say numb, never say left behind), thanks so much for asking.” A surface-level question required only a surface-level answer, satisfying only pleasantries but accomplishing nothing; unsaid was the agreement that as long as I acted okay, no one had to be burdened by the fact that I wasn’t okay.
As time pressed on, it became apparent that this period of suspended acceptance wouldn’t last forever, and my nascent grief bullied its way past my shock and introduced itself as incoherent anger. I became enraged whenever someone else touched my dad’s stuff, seething when they suggested we pack up his office. His things weren’t just artifacts of his life but insights into his last precious moments. “GIVE THAT TO ME. IT HAS HIS HANDWRITING ON IT!!” “DON’T MOVE THAT; HE PUT THAT THERE!!!” “WHAT WAS SO-AND-SO DOING IN HIS OFFICE?! SHE HARDLY EVEN KNEW HIM!!” I threw things at walls, stormed out of rooms, and ragefully hung up on a few too many family members during that time.
The summer was ending, so rather than stare down the barrel of grief in my hometown any longer, I opted instead to go back to school.
I anticipated returning to campus, assuming it would still hold the same bourgeoning sense of wonder as when I left, only finding out upon my return that the gleaming promises of my future had corroded, and in their place stood only doubt and cynicism. I felt like I had gone behind the life’s curtain, except instead of the magic design I was expecting, I found only a flawed, broken machine, ready to sputter to a bitter halt at any given moment.
Given my disillusionment, I couldn’t understand how everyone was walking around so full of hope. Didn’t they know this was all a con? That the proverbial fucking rug could get yanked from beneath them at any time? It was like watching cars happily speed down a highway I already knew led nowhere. The future was discouraging; everything about my present circumstances—especially the cruel, hard fact that life could end so sadly and suddenly without any justification whatsoever— seemed to belie hope. Life had duped me on a grand scale, and I knew it would be easier, from this point forward, to brace myself for the utter devastation that was certainly lurking around the next corner. Blindside me once, shame on you. Blindside me twice…
All of these revelations were compounded by the physical effects I was experiencing at the time. I lived in utter fear of being alone while the sun was setting—completely losing my shit whenever the afternoon began to fade into evening. I would find myself clenched tightly within the steel grip of panic, my breath would get short, I would break out in a cold sweat, and I would be wholly overcome with tears and despair (my body betraying any conscious demand to return itself to a functional state) until the stars came out assuring me it was night. To this day, I don’t know if it was merely a reaction to the drastic transformation from day to night or possibly just the sky’s acknowledgment that one more day had come and gone without my dad, but to cope, I spent all sunsets inside avoiding the spectacle at all costs. Once when I was driving alone and began to feel the impending doom of dusk, I yanked the wheel, pulled over, darted into the nearest store (a Dollar General), and wandered the aisles with my back turned towards the door until I was sure by the time on my watch that it was entirely night.
I had no idea what to make of my body’s reaction. I guess, though, it seemed pretty on par, given the turmoil going on inside. Grief dictated everything, from my general outlook to the massive reformulation of what my life meant. His absence only became more obvious the more I tried to resume a normal routine. Anytime I had a question I knew only he could answer, found something unexplainable outside, or had car trouble, my mind would default reflexively to, “Just ask Dad” for one hopeful, ignorant beat. Then came the dawning realization, the sickening plummet from anticipation to reality, that in the place where his broad, steadfast presence I so heavily relied on once stood, there was now only a gaping hole of memories.
Grief, for me, is best described as an underground fight club, an inescapable dungeon where emotions drag you to kick the shit out of your heart. Sometimes, I found myself angry, screaming furiously, banging the steering wheel and throwing things in a useless attempt to fight back. Sometimes, I would cower in the corner, too depleted, too ravaged, too hopeless to do anything but surrender in submission and let grief have its way with me. Sometimes, I’d try to outrun it, desperate to quench my need for normalcy by immersing myself into my boyfriend’s perfectly upright life. Sometimes, I’d numb it away, drinking myself stupid enough to pretend it didn’t exist.
But goddammit, if it didn’t always get the best of me, landing that one-two punch that felt so visceral, so tangibly real, it made me double over in pain and gasp for breath, wrapping my arms tightly around my abdomen as I tried to physically hold together what I so obviously couldn’t secure inside. Hot tears and gasping sobs were the only useful outlet, however temporary, to expel the immensity of anguish trapped inside.
If someone had pushed me off a cliff, it would have made more sense and hurt less than that first year of grief.
Until tomorrow,
Tess
[TO READ MORE OF THIS ESSAY, CLICK HERE: TODAY I ASKED MYSELF MY STORY]
- I Don’t Know About You, But Am I Really 32?
- Today I Asked Myself My Story
- My First Run Back
- Today I Asked Myself About My Worth
- Today I Asked Myself About Rebuilding With Worth
- Today I Asked Myself About Discovering Shame & Finding My Worth
