heartstrings

Chapter 30

Nicholas
February 7th 2018

Grief

Grief is a monster. It's an invisible weight that sits on your chest, making it hard to breathe. It's a relentless whisper in your ear, reminding you of what you've lost, of what can never be again.

For me, it's been a constant companion since Mom died. It's the ache that never fully goes away, the shadow that follows me everywhere.

People tell you that it gets easier with time. That the pain dulls, and life moves on. But they don't tell you about the guilt that comes with that.

The guilt of laughing at a joke, of enjoying a sunny day, of moving forward when someone you love is stuck in the past.

They don't tell you that grief isn't a linear process, that it hits you in waves, knocking you down just when you think you're starting to stand up again.

On the outside, I might seem okay. I laugh with my friends, go to school, try to act like a normal person. But inside, it's a different story. Inside, there's a constant battle between holding on to the memories and letting go enough to live my life. It's a balancing act that I'm never sure I'm getting right.

Grief is unpredictable. Some days, I can get through just fine. I eat, sleep, and almost feel normal. It's like the grief is a shadow, always there but manageable, lurking at the edges of my consciousness without overwhelming me.

Those are the good days, the days when I can almost convince myself that I'm okay.

Lately I have been having a lot more good days, ever since Eve entered into my life everything just felt so much brighter and since my mom died this has been the first time that life was good enough that i worried about dying.

But today was different.

There are the other days. The days when a random trigger can send me spiraling into a full-on sadness episode.

It could be anything—a song on the radio that Mom used to love, the smell of her favorite perfume wafting through a crowd, or even just seeing a mother and child walking hand in hand.

Those moments hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me and dragging me back into the depths of my grief.

Today was one of those days. The anniversary of Mom's death is a built-in trigger, a day that's marked on my calendar as a guaranteed breakdown.

But sometimes, it's not as predictable. It can sneak up on me, catching me off guard and leaving me gasping for air. Like last week, when I was walking through the park and saw an easel set up under a tree, an artist lost in their work.

It was so much like how Mom used to paint in our backyard, and I had to sit down right there on the bench because the world felt like it was spinning too fast.

On the bad days, the grief is suffocating. It's a heavy blanket that wraps around me, pressing down until I can't move, can't breathe, can't think of anything but the loss.

It's like being trapped in a dark room with no way out, the walls closing in around me. My chest tightens, and the tears come without warning, hot and relentless. I can't control it. I can't stop it. All I can do is ride it out and hope that eventually, the storm will pass.

Matt tries to help. He's always there with a text or a call, offering a lifeline in the middle of the chaos. Sometimes, I can reach out and grab it, let him pull me back to shore.

Other times, I'm too far gone, too lost in the waves to even acknowledge that he's there. On those days, it feels like I'm drowning, and all I can do is let the water take me under.