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I do not know where the earth went.

June 11, 2015

“Crying dehydrates you”,
she told me.
And I didn’t believe it.

People ask me how I’m doing and it feels like a lie. The question is a lie, a perfunctory part of the social contract. I am supposed to say, “I’m hanging in there, thanks for asking.” When what I want to say is,

“I do not know where the earth went.”

It slipped away from under my feet when I wasn’t looking
And now I don’t know who I am. I don’t feel like myself.
My point-counterpoint is gone.
I don’t know where he went.

It seems important to me to know, to try to know, to have an idea. I want to ask him, where are you? Where have you gone? All I have left is your body, and that’s not you, and it’s in pieces, it’s been burned, your bones have been smashed, what I have left is fragments. What I have left is just a body. People say, “I’m sorry.” People say, “He was so young.”

People say a lot of things and they all sound like the wrong thing to me. Everything sounds like the wrong thing. There’s nothing that can fix this. I used to believe I’d felt a hole inside of me before, but I had no idea.

Grief is awful. It is an awful, awful thing that comes in waves. It hits, it carries you away, it drags you under, it lets you come up, it lets you bob on the surface, and then it pulls you down again. Some days I am okay. Some days I yell at strangers and break down into heaving sobs on the street. I keep asking myself, when will I feel like me again? When will I go back to normal? When will I be okay? When will I stop being this person, who cries in public, who shows weakness, who needs others? When will I stop being this person who has forgotten how to dress, how to function, how to be? I am a closed fist and your death has made me a broken hand, open, in pain, waiting to be grasped.

One Comment leave one →
  1. June 11, 2015 1:33 am

    I won’t tell you it will get better because I know what it feels like to hear the wrong thing over and over and over and because it’s only partially true, anyways. Grief cracks you open and changes you. You won’t ever be you again. Not in the way you once were. It leaves a seam, not a scar, but rather something that no matter how tightly it’s sewn can always be ripped open again when you least expect it. Grief will recede and grief will fade but grief follows and grief abides. And some day, you’ll live comfortably together.

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