Grief is incredibly exhausting.
There is the exhaustion from battling against a “new reality” that is incomprehensible. An apparent “truth” that your loved one is no longer here, that feels like the biggest lie, the worst joke ever told, the cruelest prank ever played. And that your mind and body constantly battle against, subconsciously.
At least that’s how it’s been for me. I remember in the very first couple of weeks, I would have short bursts of sleep, during which I would dream that my brother was still here. And as soon as I awoke, my mind would instantly remember what had happened, and I’d be crushed by the grief anew. Multiple times each night. Over and over again.
Then there is the exhaustion of trying to exist in a world that carries on as it did before. And expects you to do the same. There is a grace period of course, that people or employers give you. But no grace period would be sufficient. Because grief didn’t just crush my world in the five weeks between my brother’s departure and the funeral. Grief didn’t just crush my world in the time that I was on long term leave and unable to work. Heck, grief didn’t just crush my world in the first year without him. Grief continually crushes my world.
The exhaustion of people expecting you to eventually exist as you did before. To one day be back to normal, whatever that is. I remember in the first 6 or so months, being perplexed when people would ask if I was feeling better. As though I had a flu that I was recovering from. And whilst I am in a different headspace today, and armed with various strategies and resources that help me get through each day; I still would not use the word better to describe myself or how I’m doing. Because there is no better after such a loss. Just different.
The exhaustion of society’s discomfort with grief and pain. People that try to force a positive spin on everything. That can’t sit with sadness for even just a second.
My outlook today, and going forward, is forever tinged with grief. So even when I am not talking about my brother or my grief, most of my actions are laced with it. Even when I laugh or smile, even in happy moments, my grief is ever-present. The silent friend in every conversation, every room, every thought. When I see a poster for the World Cup, or hear anything football-related, even in passing, of course I think about my brother and his lifelong obsession with the sport.
When I hear afrobeats play on the radio or in the shops, my mind focuses on my brother and how he either loved the song playing if it was released when he was here, or knowing that he could have loved it if he had got the chance to hear it. Even without closing my eyes open, I can picture him enjoying the songs and mercilessly subjecting my family and I to his playing them on repeat.
When I see a man of his build, and sometimes even when the man bears no similarities to him. When people talk about their siblings or family, my silent grief bubbled to the forefront of my mind. Not that I would want or expect people to avoid talking about their siblings in front of me – my pain will exist regardless, and they did not cause it. I can, however, often find it difficult to hear about estranged sibling or family relationships, as I cannot fathom my brother being here and me not being in contact with him. In these cases, restraint and silence help me to not project on others who have every right to make their own choices with their own family, and live their own life as best suits them.
There is the exhaustion of taking five steps forward and ten steps back. The exhaustion of carrying this heavy and silent companion at all times. The exhaustion of having to carry on when so much seems pointless now. Despite this, I am comforted by the gentle reminder of a friend that I am moving. Incremental movement is movement nonetheless. And with these incremental movements, I am making it through each day. And that is all that is needed.
Leave a Reply