A letter to my Grief

In therapy, I can get some of the words out, but not cohesively. I share my writing with her because it's the only way I can still communicate effectively about this topic. She suggested I write my grief a letter. After writing the letter, I feel like I can start to materialize my grief into something tangible, a being of sorts. We'll see...

Here is my letter to my Grief:

Dear Grief,

I don't know when you moved in. I only know one day the house was mine, and the next it was yours too... and you took the biggest room.

You showed up as a blanket. Dark. Heavy. Laid across me before I even open my eyes. Some mornings I don't fight you. I just lie there and let you win the first hour. It's easier that way.

You've taken things from me. My laugh, most days. My patience for small talk. My ability to walk into a room and be the light in it, the way I used to be before you came.

You’ve taken my spark, my desire to be a better person, my drive, my motivation. People notice. I see it on their faces. They don't say it, but I know they're looking for the outgoing positive man who used to chase off everyone else's gloom. He's still here, I hope. He's just trying to share space with you now, but there’s no room for him.  

You’ve taken my identity. I’ve spent 22 years learning how to be the best, albeit imperfect role model for my son. I’m still Ryans father, but not actively. There is no more advice to give, no more late night talks about things to come. There is no version of the future that makes any sense.

You’ve taken away all my plans of being a grandfather. Retiring somewhere close to Ryan so that I can help him become the best father that he can be while spoiling his children rotten.

You’ve taken my years of work, learning how to be the most authentic version of myself. Practicing being one whole person work – personal – good – bad coexisting in the same place. Now I am forced to wear a mask to compartmentalize my pain and suffering for fear it is too much for others to bear.

I want to fucking hate you. Most days I do. But I also know you moved in the same day he left, so some strange part of me can't let you go either... because if you left too, what would that mean about how much he mattered.

So instead, I'm not trying to evict you. I'm learning to live around you instead. Not worse than yesterday, that's the goal now. Not healed. Not over it. Just... not worse.

I've heard people talk about carrying grief instead of drowning in it. About making room, eventually, for other things to sit beside you... laughter that doesn't feel like betrayal, a good day that doesn't collapse under your weight, a version of me that can hold you and still function.

I don't know that man yet. I ache for him the way I ache for Ryan. I don't know when he shows up, or what he'll look like when he does, or if I'll even recognize him.

But I'm still here. Existing. Still getting up under your weight every morning. Still setting a place for you at the table, because I don't think you're leaving, and I've stopped asking you to.

Grief, I’m begging you, please, I just need you to make room. The way they say you eventually do.

I need you to sit beside me instead of on top of me. I need enough space to breathe and still keep him close.

That's all I'm asking. And it’s taking all my strength to ask.

Still here,

Eric