Grief & the Expectation to Look Like an Ass

Grief. Five letters seem an inadequate capsule for the experience.

My life has become a strange desert. The surface of Mars, maybe. Full of echoes, ghosts, intermittent sandstorms.

Is there beauty or life left in her? I wonder. I feel doubtful but the circle of love around me is vehement, "No, Chancey. You're just hallucinating right now. There is no desert. No barrenness of which you speak."

I throw rocks at the love. Kick sand at it. No way. Can't possibly. Full of shit. Or pity for a lost cause.

Then, the bitch comes in. Hey fuckface - your self doubt, hate, deprecation, absorption make me SICK. Seriously, get over your damn self. For fuck's sake. Do you think you're in some unique situation? NO. Millions have survived.

Then I get numb. The only thing piercing the numb is a raging appetite and womb ready to end this endometrium's entire LIFE.

I must figure out how to survive. Because once I do, the desert hallucination passes. Life and love and passion and joy will be accessible. I'm not naive enough to think I'll be hunky dory, that my predisposition to depression and anxiety will magically dissolve. BUT - there will be more balance rather than this rabid wild thing called emotion dragging me behind it.

I will establish an anchor and domesticate, refine.

Find or create a core of power.

I can't expect grace over night. I can expect to look like a complete ass and the weakest, most embarrassing human on the planet as I go.

I must trust in myself. My decisions and instinct. Don't overthink it. Just go through it. Hit the underthink edge a few times, learn, nod, and commit to memory until it becomes easy to do, eyes closed. Get deft as FUCK at navigating that, and the rest will follow.