Why is it easier to write about the abstract theories revolving around my own experience with grief than it is to write about the experiences that happened?
It’s as if living in the grey area of life is more comforting than the black and white realities.
This happened. But, why?
And, who I do I even become because of it? How does this shape how I relate to others?
I could write endlessly about it, but every time I try to write about what happened I just can’t find the words.
I find the stark realization in the tensions that lay between the world around me, and the world inside of me…and just how much grief has transformed me and ruined me all at the same time.
And let’s be clear, it was never a single incident. It was systematic, cumulative and violent.
I guess that’s a paradox of grief that is left unanswered – making sense of its meaning long before you can bear to tell the story.
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