I used to think of grief as a little old lady who withdrew from polite company to weep delicately into a lace handkerchief. Now I know the truth. Grief is not your maiden aunt, the one with fine manners and long skirts and high collared blouses. Grief is a thug. It wears a stained, cracked black leather jacket and ancient blue jeans. Biker boots, brass knuckles and chewing tobacco. He reeks of scruff and dirt and bad breath and stale cigarettes mixed with motor oil and cat piss.
Grief is intrusive, rude and entitled. It doesn't care that you are busy, that you have things to do. It pushes into your life at any time of the day or night, interrupting routines and sleep. Meal times? Better set an extra plate because you never know when he'll show up, demanding to be fed. Bed time? Even a king-sized bed wouldn't be big enough for cover-stealing, pillow-twisting Grief.
Grief waits for you in the shower, sliding over your body with the soap, suffocating your skin. Grief ambushes you in the kitchen as you try to figure out what comfort food is going to soothe this terrorist. Grief hides in plain sight, lounging on the dashboard of your car like a depraved bobble-head doll, daring you to read street signs through your tears.
Grief will find you in the grocery store, at a friend's house, on vacation. He is a diligent body-guard, ensuring that your world stays small. You cannot out-run him, drive faster, get far enough away--he is always there, like a chronic itch, a bad rash, a hemorrhoid. You can drug him, medicate him into a stupour, but he still hangs around, just clumsy now and snoring.
Grief will hide anywhere: in lines of poetry, between songs on a playlist, in colours, shapes, tastes, scents--he can fit anywhere. (For me, it was turquoise--my mother's favourite colour--every damn thing I saw in that colour had Grief in it, waiting to poke his thumb into my eye.). Grief demands access to every part of your life--and trying to keep him out just makes him work harder. Lock the door? He'll jimmy the window. Go away for the weekend? You'll find him asleep in the back seat of your car. Sure, he takes the occasional moment or day off--but he always comes back refreshed and ready to hold you hostage again.
And finally, finally you find ways to deal with him. Ignoring him doesn't work, so you start to expect him. Set that extra plate, plan for an extra 'participant' in activities. Build in additional time to deal with him, if you can. Acknowledge him, validate him. Sure, he's still got a sack of dirty tricks and surprise attacks in store, but his zeal for these will wane eventually. You'll start to see him coming, to recognize his shape in the shadows, to hear his heavy footsteps approach. You'll begin to understand that fighting him is really fighting yourself. That his entitlement to your life might remind you of your own power. That his outline matches your shape and his despair is only as deep as your own resources.
Gradually, slowly, he discards the leather jacket; he puts on soft-soled shoes; he shaves. He starts to respect your routines. He brings his own lunch. He leaves at a decent hour. He takes the bus on his own. And one day, you'll realize that you haven't seen him around for a while. And then you will spot him on the street in your neighbourhood, and your stomach will clench, but he'll be looking at someone else. He may catch your eye and nod, but you'll be able to turn and walk away.
He never forgets about you or loses your address, but his obsession for you wears off. It may take a year or a decade, but he eventually loses interest. You will never forget him, either. How could you forget someone who knows you so well? He who has shared your bed like a lover, who knows every aching second, with you inside your skin. You have marked each other. There will always be a part of you that can reach for him, that can find him in a second. Those desperate moments of loneliness, of refusing to accept the truth, of terrifying change. But they are temporary and they will pass. You have marked each other. The scar you have left on him is unknown. The mark he leaves on you could be anything: fear, hope, strength, brokeness. You can leave it out there for all to see or cover it up with long sleeves or a tattoo. Whatever it is, it is yours. You have earned it. You have survived.
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