The problem with grief.

The problem with grief isn’t the grief itself.

It isn’t the black hole that opens up outside a hospital, in the smoking area as they tell you the brain tumor won the fight the fight this time, cells versus man. The goodbye you never got to give and the seven years the twenty-three-years you can no longer remember.

It isn’t the hotel buffet breakfast when the mobile rings, and you know that it can’t be good like a morning or a night. You can’t face watered down orange juice for a week afterward, so you inwardly choke on your tears and toast, when you realise she’ll never make egg and soldiers again. 

It isn’t always the inevitable death or the sudden decline, it’s all the carry on that comes after the pain. The sob that catches in your throat because you shouldn’t cry in front of the children, stay strong they say, for them, yet soothe their tears after a temper tantrum at school today.

The problem with grief isn’t the grief itself.

The problem is our avoidance of it at all costs. Put on a brave face. Take three days compassionate leave. Get an early night and eat something, for gods sake you need to eat something. 

The problem is a year later, when their favourite film makes you cry. Except you should be over it by now. Over it how? You can’t get over something you never had a chance to feel in the first place.

 The problem is our lack of trust, that all the crying, screaming, and grief, that demands to be felt at the time it falls might actually be what we need to heal, so we can move on, as they say they would want.

The problem with grief isn’t the grief itself.

It’s our denial that grief may exist, in this moment, as it happens. It’s our rush to carry on with our lives, as though death itself may come after you or your own, guilty by association. It’s our own minds, that years from now, on a bus or at dinner, will break down with the words or tears you never let be.

The problem with grief isn’t the grief itself.

It’s the fatigue cracks that we paint over now that bring down the jet twenty five years later. A patched up heart never did heal back to the way it was and thus, the problem isn’t with grief.

It’s with us. 


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