The One I Wanted to Forget vs. the One I’m Scared to
Two griefs. One uncomfortable emotion.
In the last year, I’ve come to know two kinds of grief.
The first was for a man I loved deeply, but he ended up being a stranger.
This grief was unceasingly intense, painful, earth-shaking, and harsh.
I grieved him as if he died, not because I wanted to, but because, in a way, the man I loved did die. He no longer existed even though, in reality, he is still alive. Walking the same earth, I am.
The end of any relationship requires grief, as it is the death of something built and shared. But sometimes, when the feelings are intense, when the ending comes unexpectedly and blindsides you, you end up grieving not just the loss of the relationship but the loss of the version of the person you believed in.
I went through every stage of grief for the past year. Then, lopped right back into them. Whenever I thought I was out, another stage pulled me back in.
Even now, speaking from a more grounded place, I can admit that triggers still pull me under sometimes.
For the longest time, I just wanted to forget. I begged, days and nights, for the pain to stop. I would have given anything to erase every memory of him and us.
If I had a vampire friend with compulsion abilities (yes, a Vampire Diaries reference; sorry for the cheesiness), I would have asked them to erase it all. For him to be a stranger.
And I know that is sad… because I did love the way I loved him. I loved the moments that felt special to me. But even that love got tainted.
I hated the new normal. I didn’t want to feel normal.
Then, there’s the grief I’m living now.
This scares me in a whole different way… because I don’t want to forget anything.
It’s only been a month since I lost my grandmother, and already I find myself clinging to her memory. I replay her voice. Her face. I visualise her sitting on her favourite chair watching TV. I replay our phone conversations. I try to keep her alive every day in every way I can.
This time I don’t want the pain to go. That lump in my throat, that weight in my chest, they hurt.
The pain I feel and felt in both losses represent the fact that I loved.
The contrast between these two griefs released something in me.
Anger.
An emotion I avoided at all costs.
I’ve never liked anger.
Not in others, not in myself. It makes me uncomfortable...
Maybe because I grew up in a house where love was present but so was anger. It always had a seat at the table.
My father, someone I love and respect deeply, struggled to regulate his emotions. Everything came out as anger.
That’s what I learned from a young age: that strong feelings can become anger when it can’t be regulated. That anger can appear suddenly, unexpectedly, can be projected unfairly, take over and hurt everyone around it.
And when it appeared, I wasn’t protected.
So I became the peacemaker and at times the mediator. The “funny one.” The understanding one. Whenever conflict or anger appeared, in any setting, I adjusted. I made myself small to make others less angry. And in the process I trained myself to avoid anger as much as I could.
If anger or a reaction from anger did surface momentarily guilt followed immediately. And more often than not, I ended up apologising. No matter what caused it.
I became a pro at saying: “No I’m not mad.” “It’s okay.”
Even when it wasn’t.
And if someone else showed anger, towards me or someone I love, my defense system activated. I over-protected. I stepped in. I got loud, other times, I shut down completely.
I guess when you’ve never felt protected from anger your default becomes protecting yourself and everyone else from it.
Anger didn’t feel safe. Neither receiving it or having it.
Even in heartbreak, I skipped over anger. I went straight into sadness. To self-blame. To forgiveness. I stayed in love even when that love had nowhere to go.
But recently, I found something out about my ex that threw me off. A small update, but enough to trigger something new.
Anger.
For the first time, I felt it towards him.
The news gave me the ‘impression’ that while I spent a year recovering from the mess he made… he’s just been ‘fine’. ‘Whole’. ‘Normal’.
I felt angry that I’m still picking up the pieces. Angry that I gave so much, love energy time… And that I’m the one reading the books, doing therapy, rebuilding my nervous system, healing daily… and he gets to walk around ‘untouched’.
It hit hard. I spiralled. I ended up on the floor again… back in the heartbreak, the disbelief.
For a second, I wondered: Am I not over him? Why do I still care so much?
But when I sat with it longer, I realised: it wasn’t about him.
It was about what I was feeling.
Anger.
I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t want it. But I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
And then the next morning, I lost my grandmother.
Everything shifted.
The pain from the day before didn’t disappear. If anything it made more sense.
That’s the thing about death… it puts everything into perspective. It makes you feel the tiniest, stupidest things more deeply. Like when your order is wrong. A sold out dress. A delayed reply. A tense conversation. All these things matter… because they mean you’re alive.
You are feeling because you are alive.
Death reminds you that even the little stuff deserve your attention.
That it is okay to be upset. It is okay to feel the good and the bad.
Emotions are vital.
But with the loss of my grandmother, I don’t feel like there is a need for the anger stage of grief.
She loved me with her whole being. I loved her with mine.
She passed suddenly, without a warning… but in some strange, spiritual way, it also felt like she went when she was ready because she wanted to. And while there’s sadness, and tears, and moments I still forget she’s gone… there’s no anger. No confusion.
Just love.
Maybe the anger will come one day…
Maybe when I walk down the aisle and she’s not there. Or when I hold my baby for the first time and wish she could of as well. Those were her dreams for me. She wanted to see me married, to meet the child I’ve always dreamed of having. Not because she was old-fashioned, but because she knew my heart. She knew how much I loved love. And she wanted it all to come true for me maybe even more than I did.
And maybe when those moments arrive, and I feel a sting of anger or sadness from grief… I’ll just remind myself that I am feeling and that is okay.
Maybe anger, like any other emotion, doesn’t have to be dangerous.
Maybe it doesn’t need to lead to guilt or destruction.
Maybe it can be a wave, passing through. A sign that something mattered. That something hurt.
I don’t have to bury it. I don’t have to act on it. I just have to let it flow and pass.
With love and grace.
In one year, I’ve lived two types of griefs:
One where I wanted to forget.
One where I am terrified to.
Both a reflection of just how deeply and truly I loved.
And somewhere between them, I started a new relationship with anger.
I still don’t like it. I still don’t want to stay in it.
But I don’t want to be afraid of it anymore, either.
I can feel safe in all my emotions.
