You can try to avoid grief, and push it back, but it remains, fixed, immutable. How you talk to it is about all the control you have, like trying to reason with a drunk.
Upon returning to the city I live in, when my sister was gone, having died from lung cancer, everything was black. It often still is, but I push back the darkness and try to move through things. I remember distinctly, in late November, getting into my head that I should go for a late-night walk, past a particular red-brick house that was nowhere near my neck of the woods. There was freezing rain earlier that day, and toward midnight, snowdrifts undulated down our street. In the end, glazed-eyed and out of my mind with grief at losing my sister after a grueling autumn, I did not venture out. What would I say if I walked to this house? What would I do? I would still need to walk back in the hellaciously conspiring weather, if I did stop at that front door. I was lost and decided to stay lost at home.
Just trying to get through the days. There's no drink strong enough, and not green or beer or wine or spirts or distraction enough in the world to escape my sadness. So I stumble through. Some days are better than others. When I manage to get things done, whether cleaning the bathroom or vacuuming around the house, it's a small victory, to be sure, but a victor nonetheless. Know what evidence of bereavement is? It is going to the downstairs bathroom and seeing piles of dust bunnies along the trim, a filth that has accrued during my two months of taking care of my sister, and living in two cities alternately, and not bothering to clean it. I don't clean them the mess up, because. there is too much to do elsewhere in the house. In fact, there is two months' worth of things to catch up and resume some sort of semblance of a life. I think about writing a lot. I let the most baroque ideas of the past weeks return from their safe submersion in the well, then let them age, li...
Damn it. Despite my diversions and crises, from power outages to partner's surgery to a new library job to a shifting schedule to the sadness of friends moving away to legions of seething self-doubt, it's time. It's time to return to revising my second horror novel, Monstrous.
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