{dolor (noun) – a state of great sorrow or distress.}
y/n's pov:
They say grief has five stages.
DENIAL is stage one, and in my personal opinion, probably the easiest point to be in when losing a loved one. I spent my time in bed, thinking that Newt's death was just some hallucinated dream and that if I waited long enough, I would wake up, and he would be next to me. It was easier that way, to be in such a delusional state that I didn't need to think about the heartbreak and agonising loss – because I didn't realise it was there.
For a few weeks, I was completely unaware that the one person I ever loved, was dead.
ANGER is stage two, and much worse for the people around you, than yourself. I became snappy with everyone in camp, was quickly prone to frustrated outbursts and found it easy to start a fight for no reason. Most were patient at first, understanding that I wasn't trying to be horrible to them, and that none of my actions reflected how I actually felt about the people who were still around to look after me.
But after a while, Vince and Jorge reached their limit, and took me to the shooting range. Vince had instructed our newly appointed builders to focus their attention on making this place just so I would have an outlet for my rage that wasn't targeting the others.
That act alone made it easier for me to transition to the next stage.
BARGAINING is definitely an odd situation to be in. I found myself replaying the event over and over, trying to calculate the seconds where I was just too late. In the end, I figured out that if I were just eighteen seconds earlier, Newt might still be here.
I would consider this stage to be the most self-sabotaging, as I look back and realise that absolutely nothing good can come from being in that place. It was even damaging to the people around me, as after a little while, I realised that Thomas had entered that stage also.
DEPRESSION is said to be stage four, where I just stayed in a locked room for days on end, not getting out of bed or even moving. To an outsider, it could look like laziness, but while I was in it, I realised even the simple act of going to the toilet was exhausting.
I wound up rather unwell for a period of time, as I decided ignoring the urge to use the bathroom and not eating was the simplest way forward. I lost an unhealthy amount of weight, and was unlucky enough to contract infections from not healing wounds or listening to what my body told me it needed.
It no longer felt important – and that was definitely the hardest obstacle to tackle.
ACCEPTANCE is the final stage, and the one I thought would never arrive. When I was in the other stages, I figured that accepting everything that happened was completely impossible, so there wasn't really much point in trying.
So, I didn't. I would ignore the fact that we all knew he was never coming back, and the fact that the clothes and belongings he left behind, will no longer serve any purpose.
For a long time, all of his things stayed in a box in the corner of my room, completely untouched and almost definitely collecting dust. But then one day, after I had failed to get even a second of sleep and hadn't eaten in about two days, I saw his box of belongings, and something broke.
I cried for maybe about an hour, which was odd, because throughout the entire ordeal, I had barely even shed a tear.
But I think that's actually what I needed. I needed to cry, to get it all out of my system and to move on. So, that's what I did. I dug through his items, crying and smiling to myself as I revisited old memories and loving thoughts of our time together. And once I had finished, I repacked the box, excluding a jumper of his so I would have something to remember him by, and then I gave the box to Vince.
