Grief is…

Grief is a roller coaster. It twists and turns through your body, leaving you exhausted and curious wondering what you will feel next. It is unpredictable, for you never know when you will experience the slow incline up, full of anticipation of what lies ahead in life. Likewise, you never know when you might creak your way onto a bend for which you are sure you will not survive the ride.

Sometimes, it feels like a pit in your stomach. You can’t accurately predict what message this “pit” is trying to send your way. It starts like an “I might be hungry” pit but you feel as though you never want to eat again. Then it morphs into a “my high school boyfriend just broke up with me” pit and you remember how you were devastated at the time. Oh, how you wish you could go back to that kind of “devastation.” You wish you had never been exposed to the truth — that that wasn’t devastation at all and it now sucks to know the true meaning of the word.

Sometimes, it feels like the worst headache you’ve ever experienced. Imagine your worst hangover… Then double it. Imagine a sinus headache after weeks of coughing and sneezing… Then triple it. Imagine that dull, achy headache you get after staying up too long trying to finish a deadline for work… Only imagine it a lot more intense and lasting a lot longer… Like a lifetime. You see, it isn’t a headache at all. This “headache” is your new brain. Your new brain trying in vain to navigate each and every day of your new life without that person whom you love.

On happier days, it sometimes looks like singing along with the radio in the car at full volume… And feeling so proud that you finally can. Life is good! I’m singing along to the radio! Then, all of a sudden, you come to the top peak of your roller coaster and slam into a wall of guilt. How can you sing along to the radio when someone you love isn’t here?? My suggestion: Accept the guilt. Accept the brief happiness. Enjoy the moment.

I woke up this morning with a headache so intense, I had to ask myself how much I drank last night. Is my stomach saying it’s hungry? Is it saying I might be sick? Oh, no… That’s right. Now it’s coming back to me. My stomach and my head are both telling me my mom is STILL gone. It’s a crazy thing, this grief. But we keep going. We keep smiling. We Do It For Diana.