I’ve written the word grief so many times now, it appears to me to be misspelled–not even misspelled, but a term invented by an imagination most dark. I wish I could detail the profundity of my grief–of my sister’s grief–because I swear on everything deemed holy, if I have to defend myself, and my sister, one more goddamned time, I’m going to come unglued, and bust up this motherfucking house. And Tara’s house, too, for fuck’s sake.
I’m one more cliché away from shattering teeth. “Buck up” is not an appropriate reaction to anyone who is mourning. For real, what in the nine circles of hell is wrong with you? I can tell you–you’ve not yet experienced this level of utter absence, yet you’re so secure with how you’d handle your shit, you believe you have some sort of stunning immunity to the potent taste of black abyss.
Well, listen here–it’s confident pricks like you who end up lost in the fog of tragedy. Tara and I, we acknowledge our need for help. So maybe “bucking up” fits. Not by your definition…but I don’t give one fuck about your definition of taking responsibility of oneself.
You praise me for my strengths without mentioning my frailties. My frailties make up the biggest parts of my strength. How can one be truly strong without that which they must overcome?
This level of mourning is none like you’ve ever had to see me through before…and I know you loved my mother. You mourned her, and now you seem to be done with all of that sad business. But goddamn it, there is no box big enough for me to stuff my feelings into, and no time table of grieving laid out for me. Shit! When you come in from work, and find me crying while holding a photograph of my mother, don’t ask me why I’m sad! Fucking duh!
I refuse to pretend I’m okay. And I defend my sister’s feelings, too.
Don’t make this a choice for me.