I know I said I’d write and that I’d keep it up this time…
But this time, maybe more than others, has been hard. I struggle with the words, I struggle with the emotions. In true Anna fashion, I feel something is afoot and then I run.
I’m running from feelings.
I’m running from grieving.
I’m running from the one thing that I know how to do best; the thing that will help me process and feel, safely.
I’m running from writing.
I remember the exact moment that writing started to feel more like a chore than a release. It was two weeks after my Nana passed away and, at the time, that event was tied for the greatest loss I’d ever experienced. The days following her death were a whirlwind of planning and doing all the things one does when a close relative dies. The sorting through belongings and papers and pictures. Comforting the people around you that can’t seem to hold it together for two minutes, those people that need support in the now, the ones you take care of so that you don’t have to take care of yourself. It was the weeks after for me. Those held the delicate moments where I allowed myself to feel something. Anger, mostly. The anger would eventually give way to sadness and I’d begin the journey that is processing grief.
Grieving her is now a once beaten, overgrown path. I give it a nod as I pass it but I haven’t walked it in a while. I guess I’ve surrendered to the fact that she’s not here and that nothing will ever be the same again. Or maybe I’ve shoved it so far down that I only let myself feel it on holidays and her birthday. I do, after all, still avoid everything that reminds me of her.
I tried to write a couple of weeks after she’d passed but nothing of substance would come out. Maybe a small handful of things but, honestly, I can’t remember. Because of Covid, and because my parents are insufferable, they had her memorial a year and a half later. Although I’d chosen not to attend, I was asked to write something that could be read at her service. I imagined writing words of encouragement and a series of short stories about how positive and happy Nana was, and how she made those around her feel the same. I could’ve written about the time I was sick with food poisoning and how she took care of me. I could’ve written about how she raised my brother and me. I could’ve written about how most of my memories of childhood involved her. I could’ve written about how selfless she was and really articulate all the feelings that nobody else knew how to. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I tried a thousand times in my head but nothing felt like it was good enough. I’d been consumed with an emptiness that I couldn’t see around. I haven’t been the same since. In fact, I’m half-ass writing about what I could have written.
Losing Nana was expected, though. She was in her 70s and the thought of her eventually passing on had taken up residence in the back of my mind a few years before she left. I also had peace about my final goodbye with her. I’d bent down to kiss her and told her I’d see her tomorrow, suspecting that I might not. We told each other we loved one another and it was like leaving with a “See you later” as opposed to a forever goodbye. I think it happened exactly the way it was supposed to; a way that I can look back on and not wish I’d done something differently. And I know that she, too, thought it was perfect. It was a gift.
Fast forward three years and I’m now running from processing thoughts about losing someone immeasurably precious to me. The sheer audacity of life, of fate, to bring him into my life knowing that he will one day leave… why even do it in the first place? Forget the sadness for a second; it’s just so unbelievably cruel. Why would I willingly surrender to a grief process that I didn’t ask for in the first place? So, I don’t; or at least I try not to. Every once in a while, though, grief grabs me by the throat and forces me under. Those moments are for the best and I know that, but staring directly into the evermore without this person feels impossible.
I’ve cried the most losing him. We’d known each other since we were dumb kids messaging on AOL Instant Messenger. I don’t even know how we’d found one another but the relationship was real from the beginning. I remember everything about every second with him. I remember the first time I met him in person, where we were, what we were wearing and what he said to me. I remember spending most of my time with him for years. I remember all the little things; how he smelled, the weird thing he’d do with his mouth, his hands, the faces he’d make when he was playing the drums. I remember the first time I saw him play and how he would look up at me in the crowd, and I remember the last time I saw him play and how I so desperately wished the night wouldn’t end. I remember coffee in Austin, dinner in Richardson, and us laughing at his self-deprecating wit. I remember him getting in my car and how he was the only person to immediately understand what that car meant to me. I remember the good, the bad and the intense. …and I also remember the sometimes hard and very deep conversations we had. I remember the plans we’d talked about for when he’d move back, and I remember how I was in a delicate space the last time he came to town and how I hadn’t answered his texts. And now I’m in a constant loop of remembering everything from beginning to end; from 14 to 34. I’m remembering how there was no goodbye.
He was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Even now, I look at pictures and I’m breathless at how perfectly perfect he was. It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around such a beautiful life not being around anymore. This is a grief I’ve never known before. It’s a strange grief, an active grief. I’m running from it because part of me refuses to acknowledge that he’s gone. I’m running from it because I’m afraid that if I process it fully, then it will mean I’ll start to heal and that life without him will become easier. I’m running from it because I still talk to him. I still sit in front of his picture and tell him how angry I am, how sorry I am and everything in between. Usually, I try to avoid anything that reminds me of anyone I lost. It’s different with him. I listen to the songs, watch the movies, watch videos of him on his socials. I’m running toward it all instead of away. And I’m running away from writing because he’s the only thing I think about most times and, if I write, it will most certainly be about him. And if I write about him, I might begin to process and I refuse.
And so, I open my hands and let the words fall to the floor.
…but then I’m reminded of what he told me and I start picking the letters off the ground, one by one, and arranging them into words. And I’m choosing to feel accomplished for posting twice within a week. Baby steps.
-a
anna in the clouds 