Something funny that they never taught you about grief in school; it is very complex, yet it can appear suddenly and forcefully as a tsunami, leaving one literally choking for air.
Or it can hover, lurking in the shadows, ready to drift into the open, like the sun poking through the clouds and eventually outshining any feelings of joy, passion, excitement, boredom, melancholy or whatever might be the dominant feeling of the moment.
And most cruelly of all, it can seemingly disappear, sometimes for weeks at a time, leaving the unwary caught by surprise when it unequivocally demands attention yet again.
It is a chunk of your heart amputated. Although I assume it is slowly healing, any slight, bump, bruise, or stress can bring the disfiguring injury painfully into your awareness.
And I have not found any way to expidite the process. Like, gee, if I volunteer to have a really extra shitty week, could I please fast forward to the next stage so I can get on with my life? (Doesn’t work–believe me, I’ve tried). Or, if I schedule enough exercise, social engagements and meditation, could I please just get a gold star and send my grief back to the chamber of hell from whence it came?
And then there is the constant dull ache of loss. Which I have become very skilled at disguising in many many ways.
But sometimes it really does seem to receed on its own.
The trick is to be as self aware as possible and try to notice all of the little games you play with yourself.
And hope that at some point you truly heal with a minimum of scar tissue and baggage.