Grief is a magnificent destroyer. It breaks everything.

How can I be full of all emotions, yet feel so empty? Yesterday I was sure I would take the experience of grief over the mask of pretending. Today I long for the tiny comfort of an imaginary okay.

Emotions assault me as I walk like a drunk through my day. My eyes are already sandpaper crusty; a wave of sadness washes over me and I am powerless to resist. Soon after, I am sure that I caused too much pain.

Look, I know I loved enough! My whole heart had to be enough, right? But sometimes I felt mean. I yelled in my frustration. I wasn’t always nice. I am so sorry I wasn’t better.

In the evening, loneliness wraps its garret around my throat. I can’t breath.

No. I can breath, but only enough to keep living. I crave sleep, yet dread the dreams that may come. Am I tired enough to find oblivion?

Wait. Ah, this feels good! I feel powerful. What is this?

Anger. What am I mad about?

I don’t know, but I feel strong. So much better than those other feelings!

But why am I angry?

Oh. Duh. I don’t feel helpless any longer. Helplessness is the worst.

Shit. I really am helpless. Nobody can stop death. Postpone maybe, but not prevent. I did that. Two and a half years. Ha, pretty good!

Months later and I am convinced that loss leaves a hole in the heart that never gets filled. Drawing brings meditative relief, but motivation is more elusive. Sometimes I go to the studio and allow the environment to fill me with mindless creative force. Then I go find a friend to feel love and compassion. My world is like a young earth, highly active and not particularly hospitable to life.

Grief,  you are not my friend. But you are no longer a stranger. I can bend much farther than I thought. Thanks for that.