Holy Bones

This week the grief has been heavy. Eating away at my bones like osteoporosis, til I’m too weak to stand. The slightest pressure causes collapse and I don’t know where to find the strength to rise again. But I must’ve found a source of strength somewhere because here I am again. Breathing all day, walking around looking like a human when really I’m just a stack of empty, hollow bones, covered in muscle and skin, passing as a human.

So I pour myself another cup of coffee and let the warmth revive the wavering spirit within me.

I hold my daughter close and try to keep my tears from dripping onto her curious little head.

I call my representatives and beg them to do SOMETHING, anything. And I try to stay afloat while Grief strives to pull me under. I tell myself this is the darker side of love, that the waves may come but eventually they will relent. That though I may feel this way forever, I will not feel it all the time.

That the anger and sadness weave in and out of my days, sometimes thicker than others, sometimes longer than others, and while they can dominate my brain, they are not the only players. There is also joy and levity, there is beauty and light, even if right now I cannot see it.

When I was a child, my parents took us to the Griffith Observatory and it was fascinating. I loved watching the world grow smaller while our perspective grew, and took great comfort in the vastness of the universe. When the show was over, they warned us that upon exiting, we would not be able to see for a moment. Our eyes would need to adjust after being in the dark for so long.

I feel that today. I know there is sunlight and beauty in the world– flowers and birds and dogs and yet– I cannot perceive them at this moment. My eyes are accustomed to the dark. My senses cannot yet register the joy and freedom around me. I feel tied down, incapacitated. Just a pile of bones Grief is gnawing on.

I want to share this, I know that I am not alone, I know that naming it zaps its power but I am afraid to share my fear, my sorrow, my anger. I know how uncomfortable it makes everyone . Especially those closest to me. Nobody knows what to say so they resort to platitudes which are just the very worst.

I know there is still joy in the world, but I cannot see it. Telling me that it is there, to have faith, to believe and trust that it will return— I know it comes from a good place, I know that it’s TRUE, but what’s also true is that is not a helpful message. That messaging helps the teller escape discomfort, it does not extend comfort my way.

And I do not want to pollute your feed with my angst and grief and anger and despair. I long to trumpet out calls to action and messages of hope and resilience. Am I not always saying “Keep Going!” And yet… today I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to curl up in a ball and hold my girl close and disappear into our little cocoon.

I’m afraid of the holidays. I’m afraid of my resentment and my grief. I fear my heart is not strong enough to hold them any longer and I don’t know what will happen when it cracks open.

I am so fucking sad.

So if your bones feel weak, if you feel like the tendons that were holding you together have gone on strike, I feel you. If this holiday season you are torn between gratitude and grief, oscillating between joy and sadness, unsure which parts of you are invited to dinner… I feel you. If one more perky message threatens to send you over the edge or into a puddle and you’re afraid you may tell Santa himself to Fuck Right Off, you can come sit next to me.

We can wear our sweats and watch spy movies and eat M&Ms and curse when the kiddos aren’t paying attention.

We can have a cranky Christmas together, without anyone asking us to cheer tf up.

(We can’t really, there’s this whole pandemic thing, plus I’ll be down at my parents… but in spirit. I’m right there with you).

You may feel lonely, but please know you are not alone. My grieving bones and I will be right there with you.