This is what grief feels like
***CONTENT WARNING: References to suicidality, dissociation, and eating disorders***Grief feels like two eulogies written in two years.
It feels like the sweetest love tune sung but never returned. Like the longing for someone who ties knots in your heart until you can’t eat, sleep, or breathe. It feels like the woman whose smile still ignites fire across your skin … if you let it. Whose musky perfume lingered on your shirt the day she hugged you, adored you, pitied you. Left you to crumble into yourself in a vacant lot.
Grief feels like an imaginary phone call with your mother. You try to remember her voice and what she might say.
‘I’ve never been very good at romantic love, darling. All my relationships have failed.’
‘I’m proud of you no matter what happens in your life.’
‘How did you get to be so brave, my girl?’
Grief is letting go of the person who held your hand in the dark – the man who safeguarded his heart yet offered it to you. You couldn’t fit the shape of his forever, and you wanted to die … but the memory of your mother told you to live. For her. For the people of this world who love you.
And most importantly, for yourself.
Grief can jolt you unexpectedly. It’s in the quiver of words left unspoken; words you play and replay in your head. Simple syllables like, I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.
Press pause.
See pain reflected in the eyes of your mother’s friends who accidentally call you by her name. Feel it in the fierce embrace of your friend who says, ‘Our parents both died too soon. Time with them was taken from us. So be angry. Let yourself feel it.’
Grief is anger unleashed. You want to scream that time is as fragile as your mother’s shattered floral teacup; pick up the shards with your bare hands to prove that your body still bleeds. You want to hold your old life in your palm and examine the texture.
The soft gaze of a mother who laughs.
The rough sweetness of a partner’s kiss.
The silken tendrils of love that wrap you up in the queer community.
You are so far from this version of yourself that you start dissociating. In a book about grief, you read that the death of a loved one can make you feel crazy. You look down at your body and wonder how your consciousness got inside this vessel. The shape of you has changed; you’ve lost weight and people whisper that you have an eating disorder. You don’t, but you can see why they think this: your face is thinner, more elfin-like. Your breasts have shrunk. Your clothes hang off your body at unflattering angles.
You are too sad to eat so you stare at your naked body in the mirror. You wonder whether someone might find this body beautiful and want to touch it. You daydream about sex. You would like to be touched even though you are a floating mind, removed from corporeal sensation.
The grief mind plays tricks on you, and so does the mentally ill mind. Depersonalisation and derealisation got you good. Your list of diagnoses is ever-growing, and here’s the latest: you have dyscalculia. And did we mention you’re autistic?
Well, fuck.
More layers to strip away.
Pause.
Grief feels like the mother who never knew the truth about her daughter’s neurodivergence.
It feels like the shy little girl who became a socially anxious teenager, who became a chronically anxious woman struggling to stay alive.
Pause.
Breathe. Keep breathing.
In two years, you said goodbye to several people you loved. But sweetie, you are a survivor: you continue to breathe love into these precious lungs; to pump hope into your warm heart.
Can’t you see how extraordinary you are in your aliveness?
Yes, I’m talking to you.
You, my love, are a wonder.
You are beautiful. You bring joy to this world, even on your grief-iest days.
So try to eat. Try to sleep. Practise self-compassion even when you think you don’t deserve it.
Then rest. Breathe. Repeat.
This is what grief – and tenderness – feel like.
If you require support, please contact:Lifeline on 13 11 14 (24/7)Griefline on 1300 845 745 (8am–8pm, 7 days)