Grief is a Motherfuc%@#

Grief. I never really understood it before. Shame was always the emotion that fascinated me. What the feeling of shame causes people to do. What it causes them to hide. The many masks a person riddled in shame takes on and off, switching so frequently. So quickly. Without much thought. Fascinating. But grief—grief was something I wasn’t as familiar with. When I think back to moments of personal grief, they were pierced with some sort of shame. As I later identified and addressed it, I unwittingly left the aspects of grief untouched. I didn’t recognize true grief for all that it was. I only looked at the shame. Grief wasn’t strong enough yet. It wasn’t yet fire.

This time. This time is different. I feel grief and it’s a motherfucker. If I really, truly wanted to dig, I could maybe find shame laced somewhere in this. But she is definitely not the leader. She doesn’t matter. It’s grief. And grief is strong. Grief can take you down. Grief is revealing. It leads you to discover areas you’ve never wanted to visit. It burns your chest in a way that you second guess your existence. You know you’re alive because you can feel it. You feel the fire inside. But you have moments where you wonder if this is what will kill you. Is this what’s going to take me down? Is this deep burning the weight of grief, anxiety, fear, anger, or is this simply it?

Grief is confusing. It has you question things that were never blurry before. What was always direct and palpable is now murky and obscure and not at all as firm as you once believed. The foundation of what you built your life on is rocked. The very essence of your being. Who and what you identify with and as—is being rattled. There is no stable ground. There are no plans for the future. All you know for sure is you’re breathing in this moment and that’s good enough. I look to my children and see that they are breathing in this moment and that is good enough.

About a week ago my grief was so strong I finally asked my kids if their chest hurt at all. One was getting over a sickness, so I thought maybe that was happening to me. Their chest didn’t hurt. Neither of them. I was relieved they weren’t feeling what I was; but I was even more concerned about why I’ve felt a burning for weeks now and, yet, this feeling was so much stronger. Have I been confusing grieving for an actual medical condition? I didn’t want to go to a doctor and scare my boys. I didn’t want to go to a doctor and have them look at me like I was crazy. Google it was. I honestly looked up if grief could kill you. The intensity of that burning eventually subsided. It is still there, but that day—that day I thought it might be over. I did everything I could to work through that pain. I told myself that this wasn’t going to happen. This is not taking me down. I will not end like this.

Grief is different for everyone. Some people you have no idea are walking around with grieving hearts. Others you can tell by first glance. Some get very angry. Everyday. They can’t stand the feeling and they get pissed. They hate the world. Some cry an unbearable pain and plead to God to take it away. Some begin to feel their grief and decide they need to go numb. They numb it. Mentally. Physically. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Pure denial. Pick your poison. Some ask for it to pour down on them so they feel every drop and then motherfuck it until they trick themselves into believing they have control over grief. They have the control to turn it on and off.

Grief doesn’t give a shit what you have in mind. It doesn’t care if today was going to be your “good day.” Your day is whatever this motherfucker wants it to be. You can choose to respond to it. Scream. Cry. Numb. Work. Whatever you do. I’ve learned you have no idea how you’ll respond to true grief. You have no idea how it’ll hit you. My guess is most of us have different triggers and different responses each day. Each hour, maybe. Minute. And how we manage our grief doesn’t mean ours is less or more than a person that manages it differently. It simply means we are all human. We all feel. The only thing we all have in common when it comes to grief is that we can’t escape it. We can’t. It has to be faced. It will catch up to you.

Personally, I prefer to face it head on. After some natural resistance, I choose to stare it in the face. Let it scream at me. Let it hurt me. Let it overcome me. Make the fire burn. Make me question if I can get out of bed. Let it hit me harder. Trudge my way through it. Find the darkest corners of what grief is bringing me. Discover what it is it wants me to search for.

Recognize it.

This is not shame. This is beyond sadness.

Recognize it.

This is grief and it’s a motherfucker.

Feel it.

So, I choose to take that pain and throw it in its face. It bounces back. Of course.

But then, whether I want to or not, I take a deep breath because I can. Sit up, because I can. Hold my chest, because I can feel the fire is still there. It’s still burning. It’s here. It hurts. And then just stand up. Stand up because I’m still here. Stand up and make some coffee. Drink some water. No matter how slow I move or how confused I am, stand up. Wet cheeks or not, just stand up. Smile when someone talks to me. At least halfway. Because no matter how forceful this motherfucker’s attempt is to bring me down, I’ll stand up every time. I’ll get through this. It’s exhausting–the up and down. And I’ll rest between standing. Some days more than others. I’ll rest and then get up again. I’ll work my way through to grief being distant but alive. And when that day comes—the day that grief isn’t forcefully pulling me down any longer—I’ll know that grief cannot kill me. I’ll know that it will be staring me in the face again, but with less power.

Grief,

I can now say I know you, truly. You’re a relentless motherfucker.