Grief And Poetry

Grief is one emotion that I’m finding doesn’t play fair with me.

As a childhood trauma survivor I learned so early how to anticipate what emotions I might feel as I was constantly being wounded. Being able to anticipate the emotions I was able to brace and steady myself before they hit me and so I could anchor myself for the myriad of storms.

I’m the kind of person (like many of you) who has mastered the art of a calm exterior while unspeakable things rage inside me that no one ever picks up on.

But, with grief…..and mourning it hits me before I can feel it coming. When this happens I feel instantly disoriented because I’m struggling to behave appropriate to my setting. I feel disappointed because I “should” have been prepared before the tears started falling. It makes me feel like I’m losing control of my general state of poise and that scares me because it makes me feel like I myself am closer to death.

This inability to perceive the approaching waves of grief feels like it underscores one of the painful features of mid-life and that is that we don’t live forever and we are half way over even if our legacy lives on.

There is an inherent weakness against the battery of grief emotions and that makes me feel easily surmountable and dangerously exposed to emotional elements I’ve been able to protect myself from since I was a child. It forces me to see that I am aging.

I am not my surest fortress for the first time and that scares the hell out of me.

My place of refuge these days has been the tender & patient presence of my friends and family. Their unrelenting patience & presence to me is deeply humbling. And even that forces me deeper into my shadow and causes me to review whether I have been as available and as present. It’s hard to admit dependence on another human for sustenance (here in American culture anyway). There is an element of shame that comes with it. And shame is something that can get you disenfranchised quick. When you’re already struggling to stay established it makes it all the more horrifying.

These emotions run deep & I have no choice but to be committed to the process of tending a wound that will never go away I think. It’s going to weep for a long, long time. And like all wounds it will be subject to infection should I sustain more losses in the near future. The energy it will take just to manage it so it doesn’t get worse is more than I have.

Because of this I find myself in succumb. I have no brute strength of will to stave off any more pain or difficulty.

I feel like a lone wounded animal on an open Sahara. At some point the pack or the herd will have to move on and I’ll have to hold on to the moments of gratitude for how long they stayed until their own survival needs moved them on from me.

Poetry I suppose will be my last stand.