I used to think that grief was reserved for death. That it was something we ‘did’ for a short while and then ‘got over’. A naïve view, perhaps, in hindsight, but I’d become adept at dealing with setbacks in life and never really thought that grief was anything else other than when someone you loved, died.
I got a rude awakening though, when in my late forties, the culmination of all the losses in my life came crashing down around me like an unplanned high-rise building demolition.
Ah, so this is grief. Well, my grief at least.
So, when I write about grief, it isn’t about the loss of other people. It is that, and it’s about the loss of self, ideals, values, and beliefs.
It’s about the loss of beliefs that have kept me safe for many years but that needed to go. Some that I clung to from a desire for something ‘more’ or ‘better’. Some that had been with me for so long I thought they were a part of me.
It’s about the loss of things I thought would happen and didn’t, and things that did happen that I never, in a million years, could have imagined would happen.
It’s about the loss of relationships, the ones that never came, the ones that came and went, and the ones I’m waiting for.
It’s about other people’s pain and the gut-wrenching impact that has on me.
It’s about life in its rawest and wildest sense.
Life is beautiful and joyous. And it’s also painful and horrible.
My grief writing is the exploration and expression of the painful and horrible.
As you read it, whatever you take from it is what is meant for you. Feel into the sadness and the pain, and then look to the sky for the knowing that it’s temporary, that it will pass and that you are OK.