Strange Side Effects of Grief
Mourning has been much more surreal than I was expecting
In September, my Dad died. I was prepared, I thought, to grieve. But no one mentioned how really odd the experience of mourning can be.
I expected to be sad. I am sad. But I wasn’t expecting the visceral sensation of a sadness this big. There was an empty space in my chest. Sometimes, when everything was quiet, I thought I could hear the wind rushing under my ribs. And then, usually, I’d have a panic attack.
I lost the ability to do much of anything for a while — work, read, even waste time in my usual way. Working took twice as much concentration and focus as usual, to the point where I started setting a Pomodoro timer to force myself to put in 25-minute increments and take regular breaks. Not-working felt like an empty gray slog. I couldn’t remember anything I enjoyed doing. I picked up three books and set them aside. I watched reruns of TV shows from 10 years ago instead of giving anything new a try. I knew I wouldn’t remember watching, anyway.
I couldn’t remember anything, in fact. I misplaced paperwork, forgot commitments and chores, wandered through rooms looking for things. I forgot the names of things I was looking for.
I lost my motivation. I felt a lot like a person who had just jumped into a pool, and momentarily forgot which way was up. At any moment, I could have been swimming toward oxygen or concrete. I wouldn’t know until I scraped my nose on the bottom of the pool or got a big gulp of air.
I’m writing about these effects like they’re in the past, but in fact, they’re still happening. The strangest symptoms come and go, fortunately, which means that I can function. I’m *probably* not going to start wandering the neighborhood, wearing my dad’s ratty old sweatpants and Red Sox sweatshirt.
(No promises, though.)
