I thought grieving was just like being sad, cry and then that’s it. You move on, like nothing happened. Like it’s the most normal thing. Cry when you remember and then continue on your day.
That’s what I thought, that’s how it felt like when I was 12.
Little did I know, losing the very person that grounded me brought immense emotions I did not expect to feel. It is like peeling off layers I did not know existed. I was unsure if it’s normal and certainly did not expect it to be that heavy. Plethora of feelings emerged – feelings I could do without.
As a woman who is in her mid-30s, I thought I have understood what grief was. I thought I could steel myself through it. I thought I could return to my normal routine and live with it, like I did when I was 12.
Awareness was not enough. Preparing for it was not enough. Because even though I knew what was happening and mentally prepared myself, it still hit me like wrecking ball.
From before to after the funeral, it felt like a nightmare – one I struggle to wake up from. The feelings I felt were too heavy to carry. Feelings I never thought I would feel, understand or lived with.
Numbness.
After the funeral, I was checked out. I wanted to get away from everybody. I felt so depleted, lost and as though everything is unreal. The house felt empty – unsettling. Despite having people around, I could no longer function. It was like I am running on emergency battery. My social battery depleted, my sense of belonging gone, all my sensitivities dulled. It felt like I, too, died that day.
Burnout.
Caring for 3 people from different age group was the last thing I thought I’d be doing in the midst of all the chaos – Nanay, mama and nephew, I thought I was superwoman. I had to be strong for nanay and for my mom. The toddler was a good distraction, the light in an already dark environment. I too protected him – not from trauma, but from me, because I knew, I was running thin. I gave everything until there was nothing left. It was hard to socialise even with my own family after the funeral. I had to put on a show every time. There was no chance of being alone as there was only 2 bedrooms and there were 5 people staying there and relatives being there 24/7.
Anticipatory grief.
This was the worst. You grieve twice. The fact that the person I love is slowly fading away right in front of me and waiting for that moment to arrive was just awful. There was not a single day I didn’t cry. Witnessing my nanay’s death felt like a reliving my tatay’s death was. I kept asking myself why I had to experience this twice.
To this day, I could not figure out whether the experience grounded me or, as people say, gave me another chance to take care of her in her final moments. I did not expect it to be pretty – I didn’t also expect it to be this painful. The heart breaks every day. The not knowing – whether the person in front of you is suffering or in pain – was unbearable.
Broken.
When I say I broke, I mean from the moment she was hospitalised, I was already breaking. Like shattered glass, still cracking. Even as I write this, I struggle to put words onto paper. The heartbreak is unbearable. Watching someone lose their life in real time, while holding someone preventing them from breaking further and there I was holding all of it with all my might and at the same time, I too was holding myself so I won’t break any further.
Anxiety.
This was unexpected. The things I used to like going out, became difficult. I was fine with my husband, but the moment I was alone, something shifted. It felt like my safety shield had left, and arrows rained on me. Going out alone felt like being overtaken by something unseen. That cloudy feeling my chest, the brain constantly scanning. Nothing helped – not even music. I was happy just being home. This has since improved. My husband took me out every chance he gets. I, too challenged myself. Though it was hard: I got to move forward.
Disbelief.
Nothing was making sense. I was not making sense. The world didn’t make sense. Everything to me was chaos. I can’t find peace – not within me, not around me.
Every waking moment felt like a haze. I’ve lost track of days; sometimes I don’t know if what had happened was really real. I felt like my feet, my soul, my whole being were detached from me.
I found myself watching videos of her, hoping that what I am hearing was her – as if we were on a video call. I couldn’t believe it. It was too soon. It’s a brutal reality. To this day, I still cannot believe that she is gone.
I am not sure if I am in denial – I don’t think I am. I know the facts, witnessed all of it. I was with her all throughout: the hospital, the care after, her last breath, sending her off to the funeral home, riding with her casket in the funeral van to the cemetery. And yet, somehow, I can’t shake this feeling that it is unreal.
Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.
— Desmond Tutu
I knew I needed help. Not to take the pain away, but to help me heal – to give me the right tools to move forward. Although I wanted the pain to disappear in an instant but there is no fast way through it. Unfortunately, the only way is to sit and ride it. I need to flow with the waves. I have to give my body and mind a chance to recover. I need to listen to them, and that takes time. A lot of time.
It’s only been 3 and a half months. Some of it has eased as time passes. My feelings are slowly coming back. My laughter sounds a little more genuine. My mind feels a clearer. One thing is certain, though – grief brought clarity. From goals to boundaries to relationships. To what I want to protect – including my sanity – to what I am willing to fight for.
Am I still grieving? Yes.
Do I still feel these emotions? Partly
Have I been gentle with myself? Yes – but not all the time. I put in a lot of hard-work to get where I needed to be.
Have I gotten help? Yes.
Slow and steady
One step at a time
Always looking forward
Always hopeful
Still learning how to embrace this
Still learning to ride the waves
Still trying to feel alive again.
If you, or anyone who’s reading this, are on the same boat as I am – don’t give up. Push through. Even if part of you ended, part of you will be reborn.
I will leave this quote here:
Grief is like a long winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape. – C.S Lewis
Eri's Thoughts 