Grief, Grace, and Gratitude

Written by Malia Waddles

I was born to the chime of catastrophe. I slipped into this world carrying the Grief that grew alongside me in my mother’s womb.

This Grief has been my dearest friend ever since our birth. She was a gift from Penthos, the Greek god of sorrow. His quiet generosity urged me to join his side forevermore. I dreamt of lathering myself in divine pity and anger. Through infancy and adolescence, this soft desire for my own anguish persisted.

This isn’t to say I was born a pessimist, or that I frequently act on these backwards desires. In fact, I try my very hardest to be an optimist, despite my gloom-grown brain. I try to be happy like anyone else does, but blood is thicker than water, and I owe my loyalty and faith to the buzzing ache in my heart. There is comfort in my immutable melancholic thoughts.

When I reached high school, though, my blood turned sour. Grief controlled me and stole my light. I was sent to a therapist, and she asked me a question I was already tired of hearing:

“How long have you felt this way?”

This question never takes me by surprise, but I’m rarely prepared enough to answer. I always have to pause to think. Maybe my whole life. I’m not sure why, though. The shame in my heart swells and swells until all I can squeeze out is a puny and pathetic, “I don’t know.”

There was a time in my life when all I could ever say were those three meaningless words.

“How are you feeling today?”                       I don’t know.

“What are you thinking about?”                   I don’t know.

“How is school going?”                                I don’t know.

“Why don’t you call anymore?”                    …

It wasn’t long before my apparent oblivion began to hurt me more than my aching mind, and my attempts to utter those plain words fell flat as they were lost to the gnawing lump in my throat. Silence overtook my words. I couldn’t explain how or why I felt this way, so I stopped trying. It was then that I truly began to believe Grief was my only confidant. This sickness plagued my life, but I felt warm inside. I felt that my loyalty to it was admirable and that carrying around my wounded trophies made me valuable.

All it took to change was one summer by the sea. Aboard a ship drifting somewhere between France and England, I leaned over the railing, letting my sea-salt sadness clash with the misty air brushing against my nose. I was alone, but surrounded by such opulent beauty, I began to see comfort and possibility beyond the curse of familiarity. The ocean waves were calm, but the water never slowed or stilled. Everything in its grasp, including me, was in constant motion, pushing forward and backward. The waves moved with such confidence, even though they never seemed to reach for anything in particular. I looked deeply into the fluttering blue beneath me, and I saw more than my reflection. It was more like a projection—a manifestation of what I could be. I saw myself as a rippled young woman, smiling and holding a wedge of light close to my chest. The lapping waves thumping against the boat’s side sounded like the murmur of pumping blood. Just then, the spirit of the ocean whispered with a warm breath of affection, “Stagnancy brews disease.” It was a quick revelation. I can’t really understand why staring at the ocean seemed to propel me out of my melancholy, but it did.

I went home feeling oddly hopeful, but I quickly realized healing wasn’t that simple. The journey of growing comes with both good and bad days, and, in the early stages, they feel extreme. One bad day would have me convinced that the claws of Grief digging into my shoulders felt sweet and snug, while people around me winced as my wounds began to ooze.

Even after my best and happiest days, I feel Grief lurking over me. I feel a sense of fearful relief when I hear her approaching footsteps. She was someone to come home to, even if it meant being bullied and sneered at. I knew I could rely on her for stability. It’s hard to keep pushing when every bone in my body is aglow with anger. It’s hard to want to change when my skin is already etched with prepossessing poison, the scar tissue shimmering radiantly under the sun. Grief has marked me with unconditional love.

The hardest part of healing has always been letting myself get better. Sinking in and succumbing to sadness is easy when it’s all I know. I’ve learned that it takes courage to venture beyond this comfort.

Healing requires a shift in thinking and seeing. You have to embrace uncertainty and let yourself feel the bitter betrayal beckoned by a bad day, then let your hope renew itself. Healing is learning to get up again and again and again. It’s learning to walk with wounded and buckling knees, even when you’d much rather kiss the floor.

This doesn’t mean burying your guilt or trying to leave it behind. That never works. Healing means learning to live with and process your pain.

                                                                                    ***

When I was a child, my parents fed me slowly, letting the mashed peas graze my skin before I parted my lips. They were patient and watched me chew and swallow before dipping the spoon back in for more. They never rushed me or shoveled in more than I could handle.

Healing takes this same process. Patience and self-control dictate my success. I take bite-sized pieces of my Grief. I chew and swallow. It takes time, and sometimes I’m tempted to swallow it whole, but then, Grief always returns with an unpleasant burp. Pushing it to the side and only chewing my joy seems like another good solution, until the anger and fear congeal at the roof of my mouth, tainting the taste of anything good.

This is all easier said than done, but there is much to admire about a person who treads through life with guilt, Grief, grace, and gratitude. Life is about finding this balance. I’m nowhere near where I’d like to be in my own journey, but I’ve learned to let the good and bad flow through my body freely. My state of mind does not define me, but my responses and actions do. I do my best to handle my pain with grace and elegance, understanding that my temptations to sabotage myself are not a reflection of my worth, but a test of my strength.

Something that has continuously renewed my drive to get better is recognizing that being happy isn’t always easy, but it’s not impossible. I know my fortitude and self-discipline will take me far. I’m learning to embrace the uncertain and reject conformity. There is so much potential in the unknown. Uncertainty may threaten to famish my soul, but it also offers the chance at bountiful nourishment. I’m learning to love this gamble.