The worst part about grief is how it ambushes you unaware – how it sneaks up on you silently while you are finally – and not so easily – nestled into a state of almost contentment
Grief is an asshole in the night. And in every hour of the day, for that matter. He strikes when you think you have at last reached a modicum of happiness. Grief hates happiness. He does not care about you – and he does not want you to get better. He does not want that sub sandwich or dark chocolate with sea salt or vodka tonic to help. He wants you to PAY for… I’m not sure what.
I am still in his clutches.
I have been here many times before, but it only gets harder. I know that doesn’t make sense, but Grief does not make sense. Grief wants to LAY YOU OUT and throw dirt in your crying face.
Grief is a monster. A mercurial, mesmerizing, moment-bashing monster.
But he is like skin or soul – there is no way to shed him. No way to survive without him.
But in his own twisted way, Grief makes you so sick that you are eventually forced to find a place to stash him – shove his cocky, contorted face in.
Oh, he won’t stay in that spot forever. But you can tame him to the point where he knows his place.
I still fucking hate him.