I feel sick. A wave of nausea tries to consume me. My head feels like it is being squeezed In a vice, getting tighter and tighter. My heart is pounding like a drum, threatening to burst out of my chest. I can’t stop shaking from my fingers to my toes. There is a lump in my throat. A pit in my stomach. A heavy, suffocating feeling of dread. My eyes begin to water. Sometimes I can hold the tears back. I have learned to fight them. I have to. Can’t be crying at work with my students, waiting in line at the post office, trying to buy groceries without drawing attention. I can get tearful and sometimes it will stop there. But more often if I start to let them go they then pour from my eyes without restraint. Relentless. Once released unable to be tempered. The crying takes over my whole body. Uncontrollable. So you can see why I have to fight the tears. Why I can’t always let them fall.
This is how I feel every time I think about Ariella. Every time. That physical response takes over. Good memories and not so good. Things I remember that she liked and things I see or do that I know she would like. Halloween and fall decorations abound. She loved Halloween. Every trip to the store involved a purchase of another pumpkin or decoration. The other day I ran into Wegmans and they had all sorts of fun painted pumpkins. Ariella would have wanted all of them and then gone home to paint her own. Cue my body to react. Grief is not only mental and emotional. It is a visceral reaction felt way in the depths of the body that nothing else can reach. I did get teary but as I said I learned to push the tears back. Not indefinitely though. I can hold it together as long as I need to (most of the time) but once in a “safe” space it all comes spewing out.
This response. It is caused by immense despair. Oppressive anguish and heartache. Overpowering panic. Panic that I will never see Ariella again. Never be able to kiss her on the head as she walks by. Never feel her arms squeeze me tight in another bear hug. Never again hear her say “I love you Mommy.” I’m not sure why the panic. One usually fears the unknown. I know what my future holds. I know I’m faced with a lifetime of sadness and yearning. I know that whatever happiness I may eventually find will have to coexist with sorrow. I have been through the absolute worst. I shouldn’t be afraid of anything else. I know this is permanent. But actually I haven’t lived through the worst thing imaginable. That would imply the worst is over and that’s not even close. Every day I endure the unfathomable. Every day is the worst day of my life. Because every day I live is a day I live without Ariella. Each time remembering anew that Ariella isn’t here and that this is forever fills me with a terror unlike any other.
I have moments, maybe days even, where I know I look okay. That I seem to be moving forward, living life, functioning. I am keeping busy and I probably look almost normal. Strangers can’t tell the extent of my sadness. Or that I am sad at all. But I am a fraud. Because that face I am putting on for the world does not accurately represent how I am truly doing. I am not doing well. I am so far from okay. Each day is a fresh struggle. A challenge to endure. I am so very tired. Sleep is not as elusive as it once was and yet I don’t wake up feeling rested. And then there are stretches. Two or three nights in a row where I don’t get more than an hour or two of sleep. It catches up.
Living with grief is a contradiction. I want to quietly bury myself deep in my blankets and just sleep forever while at the same time I can’t stay still. I am crawling in my skin, literally trying to refrain from pulling my hair in anguish, wanting to scream at the top of my lungs. I want to be around supportive people but at the same time I don’t want to interact with anyone. I crave connection and I crave solitude. Keeping busy keeps me sane but at the same time I don’t want to do anything. This life seems unendurable and yet I have no other choice but to keep on living. And I hate that.