It wasn’t just my own grief that I feared, it was also your grief. As I mentioned above, I avoid people. I’m an introvert (INFP if you’re into Myers Briggs) with social anxiety. You are more likely to find me at your (pre-Covid) soiree hiding in a corner playing with your dog than standing at the punchbowl making small talk with a bunch of strangers. (And that’s if I actually attend your party.) So, prior to writing about death, if we were coworkers and I found out that your mom died, I would avoid you.
One, because I didn’t know what to say to you to fix your grief. I have since discovered that there are no words to “fix” someone’s grief but avoiding people who are grieving has the unfortunate side effect of making that person feel like they are contagious or that what they are going through is wrong. Grief is not wrong. It’s natural. And I don’t know if you know this or not, but SPOILER ALERT: we are all going to die. People we love will die. Even people we don’t like will die. And right now, a lot of people are dying.
Two, because I didn’t want to make you feel worse by bringing up the death of the person that you loved. Which is ridiculous the more I think about it. You/I already feel bad. If I avoid talking about the pink elephant that I know is there, and you know is there, I imply that you need to get over this thing by yourself. And quickly. Like before next week so we can all get back to talking about Baby Yoda, the true meaning of covfefe (I think it’s Covid fatigue. Webster’s, call me!) or this ridiculously awful year.
My debut novel, Forever 51, came out this week and I have experienced everything from elation to existential dread. Wonderful things have been happening with the book, but I am also sad and weepy and it sucks. (Diana, I did refrain from using another expletive in that sentence.) I want to call my mom, but since that isn’t possible, talking/writing about my grief will have to do.
For now.
