Of Grief: Year Two

I've got a lot to pine about, I've got a lot to live without. - Bigger than the Whole Sky, Taylor Swift

I don’t know when I stopped writing to and about you in length - but it seemed to be something I decided to do subconsciously - still quite uncertain. Maybe I lost my way around words a few weeks after the first month - my brain exasperated coming up with all the possible words just to describe how I was feeling - what I was going through. Or maybe it was dealing with my diagnosis of depression - my psych putting me on medication and so the feeling of anguish seemed like it diminished on the surface. Or perhaps it was because it seemed to me that nobody wanted to read about pain and how dare I rain on their own parades of positivity and happiness - how careless of me to put out these raw, unsolicited emotions and thoughts on display to people who have lives of their own.

I was so vocal about how devastated I was when you passed away and felt like I’ve used up all the words synonymous to sadness, pain, and grief. I poured my heart out to friends and family who reached out and already went through the situation I found myself in. But there was a nagging feeling of always having to tiptoe around most for fear of dragging down their moods. So I kept it in and tried to cope with it by myself or with Mum and Ting. I did a pretty decent job, I’d like to think.

My therapist told me yesterday that sometimes, the pain we feel when we lose someone we love isn’t always about just grieving for the loss, whatever form it may be. Sometimes it’s grieving what you pictured your life out to be had that loss not taken your loved one away.

My heart was filled to the brim with regret - it still is now - thinking of all the experiences I will never get to share with you. Of all the music we will never make, all the songs we will never sing. Of all the things I will never even have the chance to give you. And even though we always used to say “I love you”, I still feel like I never said it enough.

In ordinary days, I listen to all the songs you used to sing or play. Watch videos of you or us sometimes. I close my eyes and I can see you singing your heart out, playing skillfully on your guitar. I let the tears flow because I need it.

In my dreams, you’re well and alive. We talk, we sing, we laugh. It’s like you never left - and then annoyance creeps in when I hear my alarm. I hit snooze or stop and the sadness seeps in because it feels like losing you all over again.

You see, even in the most mundane of days, I allow myself to lament. But today… today isn’t like any other day. Today marks the second year of not having you in my life and it already feels like a lifetime. I clasp my hands and cry my heart out in prayer because I need all the strength God can bless me with to endure more years of this.

There’s no one-way street to go through the stages of grief. I keep the faith and hope for the best and take each day at a time. I keep springing back and forth to bargaining and depression when I thought I’m already at the point of acceptance. Grief is very contrary to what a lot of people say. No, it just doesn’t get better. Grief is synonymous to ocean waves. It comes and it goes - and you don’t have a single clue when. Sometimes the waves feel like they’re going to drown me, sometimes I feel like I can just ride it out and move forward… until the next giant wave comes.

June used to be a very happy month for me. But now, when June comes, it feels so heavy. Father’s Day and the anniversary of your passing a few days apart? It’s a two-fold hit and the days in between just isn’t enough to recuperate. I find myself always torn between assuring myself that you’re happier, doing better… because why couldn’t it have been happier… here? Better, here. I ask a lot more of those questions and remind myself that it can’t be undone and that whatever the answer is, it’s nothing my feeble human mind can ever comprehend. That life is fleeting. And no matter how painful it is and how short the years seem to be, I’m just grateful the Lord appointed you to be my father. That I got to experience the kind of love you had to give - it wasn’t perfect, but it was unwavering. In moments where I feel so heavy-laden, I see your smile and bear in mind that there was nothing you wanted more in life but for our family to be happy. So I have to be. I need to be.

Today and on all other days, I let myself grieve what could’ve been, would’ve been, and should’ve been. But know that there is also hope and love in my heart. Right in that big, gaping, you-shaped spot that will never get better. I’m just learning to live around it.

I love you, my jolly old soul. I’ll spend the rest of this life missing you.