Your writing prompt: "Grief is..."

Ohhh hi Grief, I didn’t see you there.

Grief is…

alllllllllllllll feelings I have while learning to live without my mom.

Sometimes that feels painful, heavy and lonely: How am I going to celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas? Where will I go? Who will be there? Thanksgiving was my mom’s holiday, and it will always remain our favorite to my brother and me.

Sometimes it feels shocking: Whenever I’m in a new city, I research spas to visit. On every intake form, there’s a space for “Emergency Contact”. I forget this every single time. And it hits me, hard, every single time. I’m shocked, even though I should know better by now. It feels like seeing a scary movie again, knowing the scary parts, but still jumping when the scary guy jumps out from the alley! It shocks your system, even though you knew it was coming.

Sometimes that feels like relief for finally getting to be ME: I’m going to suggest sushi or thai food for dinner with my friend. I could never go to one of those restaurants with my mom. She stayed safely within the four walls of “her box”. Meat and potatoes? In the box. Soosh and pad thai? Not in the box.

Sometimes that feels like anger: How could you leave me here to deal with them? Why are they acting so horrible towards me? Why can’t they sit down to talk this out? How did I survive growing up with a family who are narrow-minded, unaware and not willing to budge? How could you keep them away from me?

Sometimes that feels like guilt: It’s a 7-layer guilt dip - several layers of guilt on top of guilt on top of guilt. Every time I see the cartoon Tasmanian evil, I say out loud “hi Dad”. It’s usually when I’m antiquing. My dad and I have a better relationship now than we ever did while he was alive. Layer one. Another layer of guilt comes from the fact that my brother and I had very different experiences growing up with my dad. My dad was my brother’s baseball coach. He attended every single game - travel team and school team. I can remember my dad at two of my swim meets. Two, ever. My dad’s business always sponsored my brother’s baseball teams. Another guilt layer is that I’m missing all of my niece + nephew’s “games” (recitals, games, events, birthday parties). Can’t I just apologize for everything, pretend I agree that I’m the worst person in the world and hopefully then be allowed to attend their events? That would be so much better than missing these, right? Just give up everything to get those kiddos back in my life. The next guilt layer was that all my mom wanted was for me “to play the game” AKA don’t complain, don’t bring it up, just let it go, don’t worry about it, just stop. She would whisper yell to me at the breakfast table “say good morning to your father! Just play the game!” When I was challenging my Grammie on some incorrect information, she would kick my leg under the table and shoot me the evil eye that said “Play the game, Jennifer. She’s 85. She doesn’t need to be corrected. Just let it go. Just stop.” There’s of course more guilt layers, but I’ll save those for another Substack. Big, sticky, gooey guilt.

Sometimes that feels like fear: I’m going to text them. I’m going to email them. I’m going to send them Christmas presents. I’m going to send another text. And another. And 10 more. ANSWER MEEEEEE! I miss you!!! Let’s fix this! Right now! Please! I’m going to text them again. I’m going to write a Substack specifically to them and then send the link. I hear a podcast/saw a meme that sums everything up perfectly - I’m going to send the link to THAT. I’m going to leave them alone. I miss them so much. I’m going to text again. I’m never texting again. I’m going to text one last time.

Sometimes that feels like depression and intrusive thoughts: I don’t want to be here. I’m not going to hurt myself, but man if there was an easy way out I would be tempted to take it. What does it matter to live here on Earth without my mom, my brother, my niece + nephew, my family that I grew up with? I don’t have a partner or own a house. I’m such a loser. Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go eats worms. What is the point of going forward? Jesus, take the wheel… and drive it over a cliff.

Sometimes that feels like inspiring: I lovvvvvvve my loft apartment. I love every piece of furniture, and every piece has a story: a copycat version of my best friend’s headboard from Room & Board outlet. A FB marketplace chair that I had reupholstered in this dreamy olive fabric - the reading chair I’ve always wanted and took me months to find! Antique lamps and knick knacks. Amazing light. So many plants. My dream jewelry box - the second one I’ve had in my life. Lightning does strike twice. Mismatched antique end tables that I found thrifting 6 months apart. My most favorite piece that I remember buying for my apartment in NYC. I found it at Century 21 downtown for $75 and carried it home over 50 blocks because I couldn’t afford a cab that far. My fridge full of ingredients so I could whip up something savory or sweet or comforting or difficult depending on my mood. I love the space I created that is truly all mine. I don’t “have to have” anything kid friendly or suited to anyone else’s likes/dislikes. It’s all mine. The only requirement is that I love it. Full body yes. Even if that meant donating some of my mom’s things because although they were special, they weren’t me. So after a considerable amount of time, I felt OK letting those things go to make room for another antique something that I found on my adventures.

Sometimes it feels like I’m stuck: What would my mom say about this bedding? What would my dad say about the used car I bought? Does my brother remember that time after I lost my job when he took me up to Lake Wisconsin and we had the best time? What would my Grammie say to me if she knew I was in the hospital? I think about ALL of these situations and I’m stuck. I can’t move. I’m paralyzed. I’m unable to move.

Grief is all those feelings and the rabbit holes they take me down.

Grief challenges what our normal looks like right now. It’s disruptive throwing us a new “normal”. Figure it out! Go to therapy, read the books, listen to the podcasts, book a grief retreat… and perhaps you start to feel better. And then, like the ruthless bitch she is, grief changes its mind. Grief moves the goal posts. You were OK with this yesterday, but grief says “Not today!” This other thing demolished you last year. But this year, grief says “I’ll allow it” and you’re miraculously OK.

Ohhh hi Grief, I didn’t see you there.

But I actually DID see you there. I know you’re here with me at all times, but I forgot about you. Like dinner cooking on the stove, I thought you could be left alone for a minute… and you would be OK. You wouldn’t burn and fuck up my pan past the point of no return. I thought you were OK. I thought I was OK.

Maybe I should change it to “Ohhh hi Grief, you ruthless bitch, I see you hiding over there! COME OUT AND SHOW YOURSELF!” Like Lieutenant Dan screaming into the hurricane “YOU CALL THIS A STORM?!”

My softer side wants to lower my voice, scrunch down and say “Hey there little griefy fella. I’m here and it’s safe. Wanna come out? I can make us matchas and we can sit and talk. Would that be OK?” Like Julia talking to Robbie in The Wedding Singer. Sweet, kind, gentle.

In my Grief Circle, we’re always told “Meet your grief where it is”. I might have to challenge that to maybe you and grief ARE the same. One of my favorite Metallica songs says exactly this:

Hey (hey), I'm your life
I'm the one who takes you there
Hey (hey), I'm your life
I'm the one who cares
They (they), they betray
I'm your only true friend now
They (they), they'll betray
I'm forever there

I'm your dream, make you real
I'm your eyes when you must steal
I'm your pain when you can't feel
Sad but true
I'm your dream, mind astray
I'm your eyes while you're away
I'm your pain while you repay
You know it's sad but true
Sad but true

You (you), you're my mask
You're my cover, my shelter
You (you), you're my mask
You're the one who's blamed

Do (do), do my work
Do my dirty work, scapegoat
Do (do), do my deeds
For you're the one who's shamed

I'm your dream, I'm your eyes
I'm your pain
I'm your dream (I'm your dream)
I'm your eyes (I'm your eyes)
I'm your pain (I'm your pain)
You know it's sad but true

Hate (hate), I'm your hate
I'm your hate when you want love
Pay (pay), pay the price
Pay for nothing's fair

Hey (hey), I'm your life
I'm the one who took you there
Hey (hey), I'm your life
And I no longer care

I'm your dream, make you real
I'm your eyes when you must steal
I'm your pain when you can't feel
Sad but true
I'm your truth, telling lies
I'm your reasoned alibis
I'm inside, open your eyes
I'm you

Grief is you. You are grief. You’re the best parts of you and the worst parts of you. Open your eyes - I’m you. Meet your grief where it is. Meet yourself where YOU are. Some days I’m Lt. Dan screaming like a lunatic into the hurricane. “YOU’LL NEVER SINK THIS SHIP!” Other days I’m gentle and patient like Julia in The Wedding Singer.

Grief (and me) are all these things: lonely, shock, relief, anger, guilt, fear, depression, intrusive thoughts, inspiring, stuck. And they are ALL overwhelming. And there’s no cure. There’s only figuring out how to live with this beautiful monster.

Yesterday my grief and I were feeling loved and fulfilled. I felt my mom’s presence and I was drinking it up! I took advantage of a one-day-only special promotion at a local pizza place. This pizza place was offering Large, 2-topping pizzas for the original price of a large pizza 60 years ago: $3.50. Limit one. Pick up only. As you can imagine, every family in all of the Chicago suburbs were trying to capture this awesome promotion and it was a cluster f*ck.

When I arrived early to pickup my $3.50 pizza that I preordered, there was a line out the door. This was the pickup line. And the pizzas were being made on an extreme delay. And everyone was at peak frustration level. I did what my mom would do: make friends and try to make this as bearable (even fun?) as possible. I chatted up the people near me in line. The line was moving, but slowly. We all cheered when someone finally left with their pizza. It was the 1st chilly Fall day. There was a little girl behind me in a Tshirt holding her arms inside her shirt because she was freezing (and not dressed for the weather). I went to my car to bring her the blanket I keep in my car. Always prepared - you never know when you might have to cover a piece of furniture with that blanket or use the blanket to sit at a concert or to warm someone up while waiting in line for your cheap pizza!

When I finally got up to the counter, there was a total Karen in front of me: screaming, swearing, telling them she’s been waiting in this ridiculous line for over an hour. All valid, but yikes. I channeled my mom, also a Karen, and I played the interpreter role. The pizza guy was saying the best he could do was make her pizza in 15 min. She was saying she was already late to pick up her kids and needed it now. I interjected and said I heard both of them. Sir - make those pizzas! Ma’am - go pick up your kids and come right back. If you need to scream and shout and swear still, call their corporate number. But for right now, this is the best everyone can do. After all, it’s just fucking pizza. That’s what my mom would be doing: clapping when someone got their pizza and getting everyone on the same team. We all just want our pizza. And at the end of the day, it’s JUST PIZZA. And the crowd went wild clapping when I finally walked out with my pizza.

Today my grief and I are calm and chill. I’m on my 2nd matcha of the day, writing on my reupholstered FB marketplace chair and headed to a massage in a bit.

My grief and I are not always Lt. Dan or Julia Goolia. We can be a Karen (the good kind!). We can be chill and calm. But we are ever changing. At the drop of a hat. Please be patient. Please be loving. We’re doing our best here.

I know my grief is with me always, but sometimes I forget how crazy she can be or loving she can be. Yesterday, it was different. And tomorrow will be different than today. That pizza will be just as good tomorrow - eaten cold, right out of the box, standing up on my kitchen island, eating without a plate. It’s the same thing but feels different. And cold pizza is so fucking good. But so was stealing a corner slice of hot pizza on my car ride home. It’s just pizza, no matter which way you slice it.

How would you define your grief?

~Jen