They lie to you about grief.
They tell you it has stages. That it is a progression. That you will move on.
None of this is true.
Grief is a torturer who has no questions for you, only pain.
It ties you to the waterboard and drowns you in sorrow until you think you will not survive. Then it waits. It makes you think it has left the room. It lets you recover your strength. Then it overwhelms you once more.
It seems to me that grief is the price I pay for having loved someone.
Grief is the echoing scream in the void left in my life by the death of someone who matters to me.
One by one the people who matter to me die.
Each death hollows out another space inside me.
Each death brings back to me all the losses that preceded it.
What they should tell you about grief is that it is as inevitable as ageing and death. That you will survive it, again and again, and that, each time you do, you will change.
It doesn’t get better.
You don’t get stronger.
I am enduring another death. Grief has wound its wet cloth around me. Soon I will be drowning.