Pain is not logical. Grief is not logical. It is not logical that later on very the day this happened to my brother, I had the most intense muscle aches in my legs that felt as though I’d run several half-marathons. It is not logical that my feet would no longer feel like my mine for many months and that I would feel like they had suddenly been attached to my body. That I would continually trip over these clunky, foreign feet and hurt my ankles as a result. That my grief would show up in these unexpected physical expressions beyond sleeplessness or lack of appetite.
It is not logical that I can switch from crying to laughing in an instant, or vice versa. That I can switch from sharing deep sorrow, to talking about something silly. That one minute I can smile when I think of my brother, and the next I can cry uncontrollably or be angry from the very same thought or memory. That shock would actually be the human body’s instinctive form of protection.
It is not logical that I log into a job everyday and carryout tasks and meet deadlines that seem pointless when my entire world has fallen apart. That I have to distance myself to avoid small talk or personal talk with my colleagues. As I am being held together by a thin, flimsy thread and one “wrong” question or statement will cause my entire façade to crumble and any semblance of professionalism to flee with it. That I use the limited energy and mental capacity I have trying to meet my responsibilities and honour my employment contract. That this means my depleted energy reserves can only manage minimal meaningful social interaction and engagement outside of this.
It is not logical that I could listen to my brother’s favourite songs in the first couple months and find comfort in them; and that I can no longer do that now. That the very thought of his favourite artists makes my chest clam up and I now avoid these songs like the plague. Even though every melody and every lyric is deeply etched in my brain.
It is not logical that people think they can remind me of my pain by asking or offering condolences. Or conversely, that they think they can distract me from it. As though this pain isn’t an ever-present and demanding companion. As though my brother isn’t always on my mind. As though most things said in conversation don’t lead my mind back to him. As though I could ever stop being his sister. As though he isn’t a big part of who I am. He always has been and always will be.
It is not logical that people would place expectations on me based on their own timeline or discomfort. That they would try and calculate what I should be able to do by when. That people would make assumptions about what is happening on the inside of me based solely on what they see externally. Or that they would try and squeeze me into their idea of what grief looks like, or worse into five neat stages. Stages that were actually developed to describe emotions felt by those grappling with a terminal illness, not by the bereaved. Not by those left behind. For those grieving like myself, it is not a linear, logical path. Rather it is a lifelong learning of how to function without my brother. And no amount of will or wishing by others, no matter how well-intended, can mould me back into the version of me that existed when he was here.
It is not logical that at my weakest, at my most broken, I am constantly being challenged to assume the best in people. To remind myself that they mean well even if their actions or words have the opposite impact and pierce further. Even worse when they say or do nothing at all. To remind myself that I have no basis on which to have had expectations of who would have been there for me, or in what way. But it gets exhausting to try and always assume the best or weigh intention over impact. And sometimes the best way to preserve the little energy I have is to avoid altogether rather than to engage with unhelpful things said or unhelpful people. For although nothing can take the pain and grief away, there are definitely actions or words that go beyond unhelpful and instead prove harmful and hurtful.
So please do not approach supporting me with logic. I firmly believe that you do not need to understand fully to support well. So please do not try to make sense of my ramblings or of the two steps forward and ten steps backwards I take. If you are here with me I thank and value you profusely, all I ask is that you be with me. Be patient with me. Scramble through this messy mind with me as I figure things out, rather than figure things out for me. Just be with me. And please no platitudes.
Leave a Reply