In The Land of The Living

Here are some things about death that I’m not going to talk about: I’m not going to talk about everyone I lost and am still in the process of losing because who hasn’t lost so much in the past 18 months? The body count is absurd and not something anyone should have to think about let alone speak about. What does casual conversation even sound like when catching up now is, “Oh hey! I’m good! Not much new here, just seven deaths of close family and friends and an estrangement from my parents. Oh! I was also evicted from my house even though the moratoriums were in place, and some people I know STILL refuse to get vaccinated but I’m fine! How are you”? Awkward. I’m not going to talk about the tears I learned to bathe in (not a tik tok tutorial I’m interested in making) or how grief has become a constant companion. I don’t think I know how to be “real” or “authentic” without being a downer right now. But I will also not engage in toxic positivity bullshit. I’m not going to seek a silver lining before I’ve been able to process anything. I’d rather drown in my darkness than pretend that life doesn’t suck and really hurt. When it feels like walking around with multiple open wounds, all a person can do is the best they can from day to day or minute to minute. I won’t talk about the will of steel it can take to fight off the intrusive thought bullies whose sole purpose is to make you cry every two seconds.

Instead, I’m going to freeze when I’m offered condolences for my grandfather or my friend Stephen or when I get asked about how my familiar of 15 years, Gatsby, is doing and I remember he’s not. I’m going to not know what to do with the cognitive dissonance between the holes in my heart and daily life and an iCloud full of memories assaulting me every time I turn on a device. I will say thank you and accept people’s graciousness. I will go to the beach to get out of the house and turn red in weird spots like my elbow or a sliver of my shin. Small, inflamed reminders that I’m still in the land of the living. I will cry oceans of salty tears alone, I will cry with others who are kind enough to wade with me, and I will play mahjong on my phone like it’s nobody’s business, which it most certainly is not. I’m going to hear myself say things like, “Life has been a rollercoaster. So wild.” I’ll vacillate between excitement for all the new space and options I have in my life and psychological punishment for flirting with happiness too soon. I will wonder how life stops and keeps going at the same time. I’ll try to make it make sense through processing with others and looking up infographics about grief on therapy Instagram but the answers are not one size fits all here. I will wake up each morning to the sun peeking through the window and think, “How” and then return to the water again and again.