I feel like no one really talks about how deeply isolating grief is.
I was “granted,” more or less, the option to leave all I have ever known behind through catastrophic events involving death, trauma, and betrayal.
But no one prepares you for when you reach the other side of crisis and there’s no one there.
It is like surviving a shipwreck and having to swim to shore, battered by waves pulling you under, and finally, after all the fight, just when you were about to give up—you wash up on shore. Only to discover, it’s an island filled with people who don’t speak your native tongue. Each person you interact with, there’s a wall between you and them.
It isn’t one as easily passed off as depression. It’s a language of knowledge most people don’t get to discover in their lifetime.
I keep wondering, am I lucky to be alive? I mean really—am I?
If the whole point of life is human connection, and my grief has barred me from that, is it wrong to acknowledge the travesty of life unfulfilled in the most basic of principles?
I have nothing to offer except wisdom and insight that the people around me refuse to accept.
A cruelty bestowed upon me by the unknown.
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