By Patsy Kelly
The AMA Journals do not discuss this condition. Neither does WebMD. But I’m here to tell you, it is real. I hurt. Since my beloved has died, I have developed this condition. Every sound, every touch, every beautiful sight – they all hurt me to the core. The sun burns, the cold bites. Warm voices that endeavor to encourage and comfort do nothing but sting. When I turn away, people no doubt think I am dismissive. Well, perhaps I am. It hurts too much. When my beloved’s voice is no longer in my world, others’ voices sting my ears. When my beloved’s touch is no longer within my grasp, others’ efforts to reach out to me are nettles that leave ugly red marks on my skin. When I see something beautiful that I might have once shared with my beloved, my throat seizes up and that barbed wire cage around my chest tightens so that I stop breathing. Sometimes, I wish I could stop breathing.
Am I bereft? That’s a good word, but doesn’t quite do this condition justice. Am I lost? Oh, yes. Am I angry? You’re darn right I am. The death of my loved one has left me alone and raw in a world where every sensation is a sharpened scythe that cuts across my throat and severs any words I might have found to express. And because I turn away from those who care with their words and touch, I am more alone than ever. I’ve lost the love that cannot be replaced, the past we wove together and the future that we dreamt of sharing. Everywhere I turn, I’m reminded of what, of who I lost.
Isolation makes this condition worse. I know that is true. But how do I cross the chasm of my own making? No, of death’s cruel making?? How do I cross this void when I’m not able nor even sure I want to cross it when the world is no longer a place where my beloved walks and breathes and says those silly things to me in the morning, and where I no longer smell their scent? Do I want to reenter the world?
And so, with furrowed brow, an angry look and downcast eyes, I turn away from efforts those of you around me make to reach me in my loneliness. I reject your offers; I don’t return your calls. I refuse your invitations. I rebuke your overtures. I glare at you when you offer condolences. I make scathing remarks when something lighthearted dares to enter my sphere of grief.
I bravely ask you, don’t be taken in by my rebukes. Don’t take my rejections as final. Don’t accept my refusals – at least not forever. Maybe for now, yes. Maybe for a time, I can’t accept your kindness. But, and here I ask with all the courage I have remaining within me, please don’t give up on me. Please remember me.
For information about The Grief Group, email griefgroupjax@gmail.com.
