In the heart of grief

Grieving is far too difficult. Grieving is the ultimate outcry against still being here, living without the loved one that has passed. Perhaps less an outcry against loneliness than a wailing against being left behind without the other one. The occasional desire to join the other, to step across the hair-thin boundary and to overcome the separation and restore the union that radiated love. And at the same time – against intuition and instinct – there is that sharp, crystal-clear awareness that erasing yourself will also erase the last memories of the other, which will cause that other to die all over again, to die even more permanently. A duality that tears you apart, consumes you. Grieving is far too difficult.

Grieving is inevitable. Every relationship and every attachment that forges a bond is, by its very nature, finite. Blessed be our abilities to ignore this knowledge and to deny that it exists while we’re busy living; life would become impossible if we couldn’t. We live and we love as if there’s no tomorrow, as if there will never be an end. No, we in fact live as if there will always be another tomorrow. A next day to be together. This denial, this ignorance, is the price we pay for a happy life. But the bill always comes, it comes when we are so cruelly, coldly confronted with the end of life, the end of our relationships. Grieving is inevitable.

Grieving is an insurmountable task. No one is able to mend all the cracks and ruptures in the story of life. It’s impossible to pause life, to stop it from going on after an unexpected and sudden end. We can’t even begin to collect all the bits and pieces of what was once a shared life. No one can stop the world from turning. Grieving is an insurmountable task.

And still I must grief. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m surprised by my own body. Where I expected a torrent of emotions, I only feel a numbness that grips my entire being. My mind is ablaze, a wildfire of memories and ‘what am I going to do?’ and ‘but what if…?’ In my head, I walk smaller and smaller circles around that same terrible, paralysing centre: It’s my fault. Of course, it’s my fault – how could it not be? I want out. Out of my thoughts, out of my body. And still I must grief.

I grieve alone. I don’t let others in and my friends and family seem to like it that way. After so many obligatory condolences and everything that had to be performed and taken care of, I am alone. I can barely tolerate any company. How could I, now that I am all alone? I have this burden and no one can carry it for me. I don’t want anyone to carry it for me – I don’t want help, or consolation. What would remain of me if I allowed myself to climb out of these lightless depths? I want to be here; I want to stay here. Here, at least, I feel connected; here, at least, we can be together just a little. I grieve alone.

All time has disappeared. Time no longer constitutes a distance between events, since all events have now been banished to the forever past. The now of my existence consists only of memories. Remembering is all I do all day. The future has literally become an unthinkable notion. All time has disappeared.

I hate this sense of dependence. I have been handed over to forces outside of myself, forces that are unaffected by my will. My deepest desire is to be alone. It always has been, for as long as I can recall. I am only comfortable when I’m by myself. With all my imperfections and all my limitations. She was the only one I could ever be together with. When I lived in her gaze, there were no limitations, because when she looked at me she didn’t see any limitations, didn’t see a single imperfection. I cannot see myself through her eyes, no matter how much she would’ve wanted me to. Who could possibly benefit from all this despair? Don’t ask stupid questions. I have been handed over to forces outside of myself. I hate this sense of dependence.

I despise my body. It keeps me tethered, prevents me from just floating away. It keeps me going, enclosed in a life that shouldn’t be called a life at all. My body only makes the lack of contact palpable. I now long only for quiet. Quiet that is denied by a body that seems to delight in interspersing numbness with paralysing agony. I have come to welcome the jolts of pain, because then at least I feel more than just a blanket of apathy. I despise my body.

I just follow my feet. If I keep moving, I can at least tolerate my body a little bit. I just follow my feet because I can’t handle the bustle of traffic and I have lost all previous motor skills. My feet drag me through parks, out of the city, into the fields. I don’t feel tired, but at a certain point my legs demand we stop. I let my body drop, sit against a tree. Sharp bits of bark sting through my shirt. I welcome this pain; I welcome any pain that isn’t internal. How long have I been sitting here? A day? A week? How do I get home? I just follow my feet.

I’m lying in the grass on the riverside. I feel a connection to the gentle flow of the water. I recognise myself in the little whirlpools that spin at the base of the dam. My thoughts carry me down, down, down into the deep. The overcurrent steadily flows into the sea, but I am the undertow, I flow back, upstream, a form of protest against the current. I feel my way across the riverbed, up the mountain, looking for the source. Away from the sea into which all must flow. I’m lying in the grass on the riverside.

An emptiness in my body, an emptiness in my life. A dear friend who worries about me said: ‘Take care of your body; after all, it has to carry your soul around.’ But my body no longer houses a soul. My soul left as well, it’s flown away with her. And I’m not getting it back. I don’t want it back. My soul is the last connection. My soul, there on the other side. But I can’t help but feel the hole it left inside me. A hole that the wind rushes through. A coldness spreading to my bones. An emptiness in my body, an emptiness in my life.

He’s singing about me. Herman van Veen, the Dutch singer of melancholy, sings: ‘Everyone should realise: the one who dies, is the one who’s left behind.’ He doesn’t know me. But he understands me. That’s how I listen to it. He’s singing about me.

The sky is blue, for the very first time. Not according to meteorologists, but according to my eyes. I’m shocked to see a bright blue streak across the sky, spanning all horizons. The grey has lifted for a moment. The enveloping grey, the encompassing grey. Grey colours, grey sounds, grey flavours. And I find myself longing for that grey, protective mist. I feel like a traitor. But I didn’t plan to enjoy the bright blue of the sky, it just happened before I could stop myself. My original guilt is overwritten with new guilt. But to no avail. There’s no turning back. The sky is blue, for the very first time.

A friendly face, for the very first time. It smiles at me. I smile back inadvertently; my muscles have moved before I’ve even noticed. A sense of calm descends on my face. I need human contact. I need a connection. I want to let someone in, I can’t do it alone anymore. Still careful, still vulnerable. A friendly face, for the very first time.