“I am not what has happened to me. I am what I choose to become.” - Jung
Four Months After
121 Days Later
It doesn’t seem like much time at all. It isn’t really much time at all, but it seems like an eternity. As I take care of the loose ends of my life here, my life with Ryan, I’m finally feeling some movement. Some idea stirring. Some idea of who I might be in the aftermath of this. I feel more open. More in tune. More awake. More myself. I am experiencing my life in dualities. Nothing is one thing or another anymore.
I am movement
I am stagnation
Sometimes I have to remind myself that he’s dead.
Sometimes I make myself remember that day.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that he even existed.
That’s how immense the hole is that he left.
That’s how unreal it is still.
I am presence
I am absence
I wish I would dream about him more. I had three vivid and disturbing dreams in the days after he died. In the last one he said: “just wait, I have something to tell you,” as he slowly closed a door. I have had vague visions of him in my dreams since them, but I’m still waiting to learn what he had to tell me. Maybe that dream will never come.
I am reality
I am dream
I would frequently tell Ryan that we must live in the moment because we could die tomorrow. Let’s take that trip, let’s east the expensive sushi, let’s buy that thing we have been wanting for forever. I was sitting on the bathroom floor, struck through with another wave of grief and I realized that one of us really did die. Of course, I knew this, but the realization that one of us ACTUALLY DID DIE was another gut punch. I think to some extent, I’m still in shock. I’m fully aware of what has happened, but there are these moments where it all becomes more true. Maybe every time I get rocked by these earthquakes, I get a little closer to a place of acceptance. I hope so.
I am memory
I am future
Grief is for all intents and purposes a solo gig. No two people grieve in the exact same way and yet we all grieve similarly. We can find camaraderie among others who have lost, but ultimately, we are all alone in our very specific experience of grief. I have so many people who are caring for me and loving me through all of this. They can empathize, they can feel my pain and they are experiencing their own grief for Ryan. All of this is a great comfort, but ultimately, I am still alone. When Ryan died in the way that he did, he took so much of me with him. I feel like so much was taken from me without so much as a word. I wasn’t consulted on the matter whatsoever. He made a choice that has changed my life permanently. There is loneliness in that even when I am surrounded by people.
I am solitude
I am companionship
Grief is the most human of experiences. Sometimes, I feel more alive. Like there is an energy pulsing through me that I never knew before. I think it’s the intensity of the emotions that I am feeling. The constant and contradictory opposites that I feel every day.
I am power
I am fragility
I wonder why he died, and I lived.
I wish I could return to that day, to the days before and watch it all back in slow motion. Maybe I would better understand what happened. But would it really even matter? It wouldn’t change the outcome.
I am ignorance
I am knowledge
I am fear
I am hope
I am nature
I am the void
I am maker
I am destroyer
I am ugly
I am beautiful
I am shame
I am confidence
I am relentless
I am weak
I am desolation
I am rebirth
I am victim
I am advocate
I am energy
I am apathy
I am confusion
I am clarity
I am darkness
I am spark
I am all these things and so much more. I feel every emotion with such intensity and presence of mind. As I travel through this rocky landscape of grief, I know this to be true: I will survive this. I will come out stronger, more determined then ever before. I have hope.
