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There is no headline or title of this particular editorial or essay. My apologies to those who like to read these, it's been a while since I've written anything new for this website. In the past few months I've lost a great many friends. In a couple of weeks, a father figure, a best friend of my son's, a brother in law, a teacher I've worked with, a dear friend who was a teacher to all in his many years have passed away. Odd to lose so many friends in such a short timespan. A personal family tragedy recently has caused me to rethink many of the roads I've taken in life; I think that is what tragedy and hard times do to people. Three suicides, an accident, and old age-caused losses are more than I was able to bear at the time. I don't know how I really feel about any of the losses, other than I know my feelings are selfish. I'll never again enjoy the company of these people. One person, a very young man, took his life because he could no longer cope with what was before him personally and within his family. One man took his own life because his wife had verbally beaten him to the point of his feeling utter worthlessness. He left behind two children. I've come to the conclusion that grief is a rapist. Unlike anger, joy, fear, happiness, depression, solemnity, grief hides in the dark spaces of our minds, waiting for that one moment when our attentions are turned to anything but being aware of the losses we've suffered. In moments of joy, happiness, or solitude, grief jumps out and strangles, stifles, and destroys any feeling of happiness being felt. It's always there, it just retreats for a while. I think grief in it's many forms is part of the ripple effect that we see when we throw a rock on the water. It spreads across our emotions with waves that come and go, and never do we see the full effect. Like canyon echoes, it returns to our hearts when we least expect it to, surprising most of us, knocking some of us to our knees. I once met a man I had admired a great deal before meeting. In the course of our conversations, he told me how he had come to know grief, and even love grief, and felt he controlled his grief. I believed in him fully, even after the death of my son. After a few years, I've come to know that this man is a fool, an idiot, a
liar. Lying to me was one thing, but lying to himself is something else. Grief
cannot be controlled, only suppressed for short periods. But like a bad penny,
it turns up at the oddest times. Some people drink, others use drugs (legal or
illegal) while some attempt to work through grief by working. I'm one of the
working ones. For some reason I find that working all day, most of the night,
subsisting on only the most minimal amounts of sleep, keeps grief at bay. In
those quiet moments that I seek pleasure or reflection, grief is right there to
remind me that it's past due it's recognition. Eventually it must be dealt with
for as long as it can be tolerated, then it's put away until it chooses to rear
it's churlish and demanding head again. But as long as I believe grief is a moral-less emotion, waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting time of happiness, I'll avoid dark places, sad songs, and the bushes. |