They say everyone experiences grief differently, I repeated to myself like a textbook, a numb brain to a numb heart and all the dull nerves in between. Why would I cry if the world I was living in was no longer my own? This one couldn’t be mine, nothing about this made any sense. Maybe this world was for the protagonist of an angsty teen fiction, probably written by some 16-year old trying to cope with their own depression, but it certainly wasn’t for me. And how predictable a story it was too! The same contrived plot device used over and over until no one really cared to read the rest. Because, in writing, why have sadness for the point of sadness? Why have grief just to beat in more and more grief? If you hit your character with blow after blow just so it can end with her collapsing in pain, maybe you shouldn’t have written the story at all.
The narrative had become so obvious, it seemed almost tangible before me. Maybe it was because I’m a writer myself, but I could see every tear, every heartfelt line, every repressed emotion eventually laid bare before some caring person with an open heart. And in that moment, from the depths of my soul, I hated it all. I had been feeling a lot of hatred that day, strong feelings waxing and waning over the many hours of uncertainty and anger and guilt for a situation over which I had no control. Now here I was, faced with yet another obvious and set narrative, yet another situation out of my control, and the feelings of hatred came back just as readily as before. I was done with humouring this sappy-ass story of loud, obvious grief and pity from every stranger. That wasn’t going to be my story. If the universe wanted to write my life for me, it was about time I showed it who is in control. This is the year I was forced to take every piece of my life into my own hands.
Yet in this battle for control of my grief, I didn’t expect to stand face-to-face with my loved ones as well. I never realized how many social expectations there are around grieving. We all hear that there are countless ways to grieve, that you should expect any and all behaviours from people coping with loss. But, in practice, this doesn’t seem to hold up. Every form of grief people expect to see are all but small variations of a single type of grief; a public, obvious, and life-interrupting display of emotions that resolve with time and comfort from loved ones. What people don’t realize is that even the most intense of grief can be silent and resolutely private.
When I resolved to tackle my grief on my own, to deal with it as a part of my everyday life, I was immediately met with disbelief. I was told that I was in shock. It’s important to state that I didn’t dismiss this immediately; I know shock can be invisible to the one experiencing it, but as the days went by it became evident that this was not the case. I was able to confront what happened on an intellectual level, if not an emotional one, and not shy away from the truth. And while I openly cried once in front of my friends, the ones that I was most likely to open up to, I then left their conversations for a few days, only to come back to the familiar lighthearted banter that I was used to. Yet the way I appeared in public only a week or so after the fact, happy and hopeful, seemed only to worry those close to me instead. This seemingly invisible mode of grief was so foreign to my family that I still hear concern about it half a year later. And from an outside perspective, sure. I can see why this quick return to the status quo might seem troubling. But take the time to consider it from an inside perspective instead.
Whether people realized it or not, I have always been decidedly private about my grief. I’ve written it in poetry that I kept locked away, or in stories through characters that were little more than anonymous extensions of myself. It is one of the things that sparked my love for reading, a private, cathartic emotional experience that I immediately felt at home with. This proved true for my connection with the late night/early morning time as well. I would sit outside in a fluffy winter jacket at 3 or 4am reveling in the chilly air, watching the stars, humming or singing or sometimes just thinking, but most importantly, alone with my feelings at last.
So, when this year hit in all of its chaotic glory, it was almost instinctual to pull away into my shell, to retreat into my safe space like I was used to doing for years. And it worked wonders for my ability to cope. My life didn’t seem to end even when it was crumbling down; I could still support the people in my life who needed an ear to listen or a hand to hold. Yet once that was over, once I was truly alone, I was free to feel and process and come to terms with this life that had changed so drastically, but that I still knew was not over by any means. Though working through these emotions was taxing and difficult to accept, the positivity of my friends and the normalcy of the day were like a salve for that raw emotional wound. And as the wound began to slowly heal, as I realized that I had healed it of my own accord, I felt even better about the life still ahead of me. No overwhelming, angst-ridden narrative would be able to control me again. My grief was my own, and I would honour it as I pleased.
Now, half a year later, my life is proving brighter than ever before. My long-time best friend and I began writing a story together, one I don’t anticipate we’ll complete anytime soon, but one that’s already given me many fond memories and served to bring us closer than ever before. So much closer, in fact, that she’s no longer my best friend, but my girlfriend. Of course there was more to that decision than our story, but spending all that time together on a shared passion certainly didn’t hurt. My career path is looking much clearer, the holiday season is approaching, and life, in general, seems to be looking up. I’ve finally made it out of what seemed like an insurmountable situation.
Yet it would have been so much easier if I was trusted with my ability to cope from the beginning, if I hadn’t been questioned time and time again, if I hadn’t been told that I wouldn’t be able to properly cope if I didn’t share my feelings in a traditional sense. It needs to be truly understood that people can grieve in any way, including silently and privately and controlled. That not having a breakdown at devastating news doesn’t mean someone’s not grieving enough, or that they don’t care enough. That being happy while grieving is not only perfectly acceptable, but can help someone cope just as well as crying. And that happiness in the context of grief doesn’t always mean denial, in the same way that sadness and tears don’t always mean depression. The process of grief is the journey of the individual through complicated feelings, haunting memories, and a close encounter with their personal understanding of mortality. For such an intimate journey, every person should feel free to choose their own path.