If grieving were easy, it wouldn’t be grief. But if it’s supposed to be a rotten experience, then I guess we’re right on track. I feel a self-absorbed rant coming on, but those are so unoriginal these days.
What’s the payoff for this blog-my-grief-once-a-month ritual? Answer: Not much when there’s so little to say. Numerous pastimes are more enjoyable than probing my emotions and memories for the words to describe what losing Vincent means to me. Sitting in traffic or paying bills, for instance. At least those activities don’t involve a futile search for words that don’t exist.
And that’s exactly the trouble with grief—the words. You can’t make it with ’em or without ’em. The only thing worse than suffering in silent, unspoken grief is trying to manufacture phrases and sentences that will do it justice. Pick your poison. It’s not that I regret the time I’ve spent journaling, processing, counseling, praying and support grouping through grief. But those activities can become painfully wordy after a while. There’s too much pressure to summarize, theorize, draw conclusions and resolve the tension. Maybe that’s why I can barely blog about this once a month, yet still find myself attempting it often enough to document the difficulty.
There’s only so much to say, and I’ve already said plenty. I don’t want more words, just more Vincent. He was super.