April 18, 2012

On Grief

Grief is an interesting thing.  It doesn't look anything like I thought it would.  The only way I know how to navigate it is by waking up every morning and thinking, "I'm going to try to do whatever feels right at any given time."  No expectations, nothing has to make sense.  Just feel it.  Whatever it is.

I'm listening to Iron and Wine on Pandora, sobbing over photos of her.

I'm gazing into Wren's beautiful eyes and feeling wonder and joy.

At night I'm frantically walking the streets of my neighborhood, cursing this city for not having a single place to go cry alone.   Why do I have so many damn neighbors?

I'm roaming around my house, feeling numb and unmotivated.  My brain is fuzzy and as much as I want to do something, I'm just not sure what that something is.

I'm sitting on the couch with a carton of orange juice and an open container of jelly.  Not sure where the lid is.  Joe will be here soon to find it and put things back in the fridge.

I'm walking in the sunshine with my beautiful girls.  Run into a friend and we talk and laugh.  Really laugh.

I do the dishes and shower, then bask in my amazing productivity.

I lay in bed in my underwear and read her recovery journals and sigh over what might have been.

I crave a sad sad movie just to make me cry.  Just to make me feel anything at all.

There are times that I want to call someone just to start out with, "So my mom is dead and I want to talk about it." 

Other times I think I can't handle the boredom of sharing my feelings with one more person.

Most of the time I'm just staring into space.

And you know what?  It's all OK.  I have a feeling that this is going to be a long process and I have this really zen attitude about just letting it be.  I'm happy when I'm happy and I'm sad when I'm sad.  And I honor myself by simply validating all of it. 

This doesn't look anything like I thought it would.

Grief looks like my smiling face with tears falling down.

It looks like a list of favors to ask for so I'm ready the next time someone says, "What can I do for you?"

It's open journals and half written blog posts.

It's super strange dreams that seem unrelated to anything.

Grief shows itself in my daughter's ever more homeless appearance at the park.
Because I just don't have the energy to be on top of everything right now.
And that's OK.

Thank you for the love, everyone.  I love you too.  Really.


  1. That shot of Ellie looks like Top Model realness right there. I can see Tyra now: "Let's get the girls filthy, take a close up, and see who can smize the best."

  2. :) everything is going to be OK. its so great to have old photos to cherish alllll of the awesome memories

  3. Not sure how I got here to your blog - random click from a friend who had shared it on facebook. Your grief is palpable through your words, and I feel your pain. You have buoyed me up today, and I'm grateful that you shared your heart with the world. May you find peace and solace, my friend.

  4. Let it be. Just keep validating your feelings. You're great. And Ellie won't remember.

  5. I have been reading your posts and thinking a lot about what you have written, I just did not know what to say. You really are a gifted writer, and it is wonderful to read your blog. And the things you have written in these last couple of posts are just so true. I hope you and your family are doing well. Keeping you in my thoughts and prayers, and thank you for sharing yours with us.