I shiver in my isolation

Day 11 — #writeingrief

I shiver in my isolation, even though I know that I’m not alone in grieving for my Dad. Even though I know that I”m not alone in grieving the loss of a loved one. Even not alone in experiencing a tragic and traumatic death that went beyond just dying.

Regardless of how many others are going through “the same thing,” it isn’t the same for any of us. We’re all in an unforgiving isolated space even when we’re together. Being here together offers a glimmer of comfort, but it doesn’t strip away the isolation.

I took this course to be alone with others who are equally alone in the magnitude of their grief. I dip my toe into these vortexes of deep emotions. I pull back, fearful that I’ll sink too far. I look over the vast landscape of broken hearts and recognize shapes, colors, pain. I’m in awe.

Each one of us gets out of this what we can. Soon we’ll go our separate ways, and I’ll return to my initial state of isolation. Yet the texture of that isolation is changing. Some jagged edges are smoother. Some smooth places are sharper. I can’t say if it will be better or worse, this modified state. I know that I will be different. I am different.

I pull the blanket of companionship over my shivering body of grief. I hold words and phrases shared in this writing course at various times, turning them to catch the light or tucking them away to a darker place. I’m collecting things, thoughts, images. Even in isolation, my pockets are full.