It hits me like a brick.
Not a ton of bricks like the old cliche, but a solitary brick that hits squarely in the center of my chest, knocking the wind from me. It crumbles on impact. The dust gets stuck in my throat and I lose the ability to swallow.
That’s when the crying starts.
Grief is not a process. Grief is a scattershot of shrapnel from a wound that takes its sweet-ass time in healing. The shrapnel works its way to the surface; it stings and irritates until it breaks free and bleeds a little to relieve the building pressure.
That’s when the crying starts.
It’s reaching for your phone in a compulsion to call that person who is no longer there. It’s switching a song on the radio because you remember who used to sing the chorus with you. Grief is a cold hand on your shoulder reminding you you’ll never see that smile.
Grief and my Psychiatric Treatment Plan ™ seem incompatible at times. There is no schedule for grief. There is no med time or appointment for grief. Grief is a Chronic Condition. Grief is a by-product of love and the child of loss.
You could say I am greedy—I wanted more. More time. More of you, always. I should be careful what I ask for. Grief has given me nothing but more of you.