Grieving the Living

“STOP,” she screamed.

The constant mental turmoil had her in a tizzy, no matter how long or short the spiral was. She couldn’t bear it and it was HER own brain.

“But she’s your mom, and she’s the only one you’ve got.”

“You’ll regret it one day. You take that back.”

“There’s no rulebook on being a parent; they did the best they could.”

“They were victims of their own abuse; you can’t blame them.”

The words of those most dear to her circled in her mind like a swirling tornado, challenging her every decision.

“But they only have one me,” she fought back in her head. “And their healing was their responsibility to fix, not mine.”

But the spiral didn’t stop.

So, since you think you know everything, who are you going to spend the holidays with?

And who’s gonna do all those corny Christmas traditions you like?

Ha, there’s no way you can make it alone.

And who’s going to walk you down the aisle?

You know you’re ruining your future children’s future, right?

Guess that doesn’t matter because you’re too messed up and absent from your own parents for a man to even want to be with you.

You dumb, stupid, selfish, and inconsiderate girl.

All you think about is yourself; no wonder your parents abused you.

You’re worth being left.

This all felt stupid and small, yet extremely draining.

Suddenly, her body grew tired with each thought, and she found herself wrapped up in the blanket at the edge of her bed, pushing away the urge to cry once more. Exhausted from herself and the thoughts of others that seemed to torment her, paired with the existing grief that was a continuous reminder of her new reality, she eventually dozed off. Only hoping sleep would shut off the heaviness and noise for just a few hours of peace.

Earlier that day, she had been cleaning. That’s when she found it. An old sixth-grade writing notebook slipped out from under the bed as if it had been waiting for her. She had tripped over it. It seemed to taunt her as she moved about, its worn form depicting a more pleasant time she desperately wanted to hold on to.

More than normal, or rather more than she’d like to admit, she found herself in these moments often, reminiscing on what could have been or what was. Those memories reminded her of a happier time. Or maybe just a time before the veil was removed and she saw the true reality of her family life. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help but cling to the last bit of hopefulness.

It had been almost a year since she went no contact with her family. And the grief still felt just as raw as the day she left. Or really, the day she couldn’t take the abuse any longer.

Every day, the grief hit her faster than the last, suddenly becoming an anchor on her breath, pulling her down quicker than her tears could manage. Every waking moment felt like this debilitating weight of shame dragging at her, only growing heavier as the days went on.

How she wished someone would carry it for her. Oh, how she wished the pain of leaving wouldn’t feel like a stabbing knife in an open wound that just wouldn’t let up.

The thing about grief is that it’s ever-evolving. It shifts based on where you are in the healing journey, or just where you are on that particular day.

And still, every morning, it felt like being hit by a ton of bricks. The immense pressure and sadness she felt for the absence of people who were still living was an unexplainable grief she wouldn’t wish on anybody.

There is a particular kind of grief reserved for the living. A cycle of knowing you did the right thing, then convincing yourself maybe the abuse wasn’t so bad, just to force the feeling of guilt to dissipate. Anything would be better than this feeling, she thought. Being with family is much better than being alone...right?

She awoke to a buzzing in her ear.

The room was pitch-black, the sun long set, the moon already at its peak. She slowly fluttered her eyes open with a wince as the vibrating continued. Glancing down, she saw her phone lighting up with a familiar name.

She swiped across and brought it to her ear. “Hello.”

“Ooh, child must’ve woke you up out of a slumber,” the voice joked.

“Yeah, I just woke up,” she giggled, her first one of the day.

“Got it. Anyways…hey lil gremlin, my mama wants to know if you’re coming to Thanksgiving. And before you say anything, the only answer that should be coming out of your mouth is yes,” he laughed.

Tim.

An old friend whose family had taken her in for Thanksgiving the last two years. This year, though, he would be out of town, and she had already convinced herself the invitation no longer stood.

“Well, I thought since you weren’t coming this year, I wouldn’t be invited…” she admitted nervously.

He sighed. “Ya know my mama loves you, whether I’m there or not. You fam. And she expects your presence.”

His words melted her heart. She needed that more than ever. “Okay… then yes, I will be there.”

“I know you will. And I already put you in a group chat with mama so she knows, and so you can’t back out,” he joked. But beneath it was something real. He knew her. Knew how easily she disappeared into herself when she was hurting.

“Thank you, seriously. I really appreciate it. I really do.”

“You know it’s no problem. I got you. We’re gonna always make sure you’re taken care of.” He paused. “Alright, I gotta hop on this plane before I miss it, but hit me up if you need anything.”

“Will do. Thanks, Tim.”

Click.

Silence again.

Then, almost immediately, another buzz. A text. She glanced down. Her uncle. The only family member she still spoke to. A small, genuine smile formed across her face as her eyes scanned the message.

“Hey, Babygirl, you wanna spend Christmas with us this year?”

For the first time that day, she felt somewhat settled.

People who were just there. Who showed up and supported without question. That’s what she needed. Sometimes grief is having a community by your side to navigate through it all, to lift a bit of the heaviness in the midst of the noise and the loneliness.

And sometimes, healing in the grief and loss is taking one step at a time into your new normal, whatever it may be.

THE END