Finding Grief

Counselling-degree-doing friend tells me abused people never heal. 

Unless they get in touch with emotions. 

Unless they Spend Time with Grief. 

I’m so excited!!!  Not.  Am not against spending time with Grief.  Not totally. 

Just unsure where Grief lives.  

And to be frank would prefer access visit with Joy.  Or Peace.  I have not seen them in some time.

Wipe sweat from brow.  Stomach.  And legs.  It really is very hot. 

Apply discipline. 

Return dodgy attention span to computer on Altar of Failure (desk). 

Project for today:  locate emotions. 

A cliché Google search offers 1000000 possible addresses for Grief.  Some requiring subscription.  In US dollars.  Should be logically impossible.  Have half a degree but cannot locate emotions. 

Tap idly on keyboard.  Tip head back.  Gaze at ceiling.  Search ceiling for motivation.  I don’t like meeting new people.  Is Grief even friendly?

But.  I must locate him/her/it.  Because I have been told to.  Where are ya Grief?  I shout.  Under breath.  Due to suspicious-police-dialing-to-report-disturbances neighbors.  Come out come out wherever you are. 

Counselling-degree-doing friend suggests one should eat foods from one’s childhood.  To find Grief.  This is some new therapeutic technique.  I buy some very small vanilla cookies.  The dimensions of the vanilla cookies are 1cm by 1cm.  They are very small.  The vanilla cookies are from America.  I have not eaten these cookies in twenty years. 

I eat one vanilla cookie. 

Brown bedhead.  Stickers all over it.  Hands.  Big hands.

Do you remember? whispers my father’s voice.  I remember.  I remember. 

And curled heavy around my heart Wolf whimpers. 

I put the vanilla cookies away.  I have to swallow my childhood in small bites.  Else it chokes me. 

Looking at photographs, Counselling-degree-doing friend suggests, is another technique. To find Grief. 

I am now suspicious of this friend. 

I am suspicious that she is testing her own theories. 

I look at photographs.

Wolf and I sense it together.  She growls.  I groan. 

Temperature drops (ten degrees). 

I am being watched …

Try closing eyes.  So he/she/they/it can’t see me. 

It is truly terrible.  Horrible.  Hideous.  Not unlike multi-colored vomit.  Or cancer-causing psychiatric drug.  Life sprints behind closed lids. 

Clutching Grief’s address. 

Open left eye.  Right eye.  Maniacal laughter escapes lips.  Am not paranoid after all.  Am being watched.  By raiding party.  Of photograph people.  

Grief under glass.

Glumly I stare.  I know these people.  She is short.  Dark.  And her eyes are steel doors: the woman in the red trench-coat.  My mother. 

There is a skipping Scotsman, cheeks bulging with chocolate (fruit and nut).  A dog leash in his hand. 

And behind them, a little boy.  Running to keep up. 

Brown-haired.  Freckled. 

And trailing far far behind the others. 

A girl.  Bare feet.  No smile. 

And a pocket full of reptiles.

I close eyes.  Pray for photograph destroying black hole.  Prayer rudely interrupted by itching of left femur.  Reach down to scratch.  Find fur.  Wolf.  With cask of courage.  Tied under chin.  I take large swig. 

And am poked in the ribs. 

Look down. 

A hand sticks out.  Small.  Pale.  And very very grubby.

The nails packed with dirt. 

I hesitate.  Then … I take it. 

And he grins at me.  Achingly familiar.  A time capsule of boy. 

I glance at him, at her.  And I get it.  I get it.  The smiley child is Joy, the frowny child is Grief.  The explanatory t-shirts are overkill.  As is the misspelling of Greef and the trail of slime which adds character to the backward G (all of which I know is designed to wring my heart). 

Surely, I have seen some variation of this on TV? 

I note there is no sign of Peace. 

Greef and Joy stand hand in hand.  Found.  Two halves of my skewed heart. 

I consider them.  I would quite like to hob-nob with Joy.  But.  I do not want to talk to the Greef girl.  No way. 

Wolf snarls.  I glare.  We all scatter.

Fleeing Grief

Sit and hold psych notes.  Psych notes are very heavy.  Many trees have died to create psych notes.  I have many psych diagnoses. 

There are many names for SAD.

SAD slouches against door.  Anorexic.  Red-eyed.  And with very bad breath.  SAD has gate-crashed my party.  SAD was NOT invited.  SAD has brought MEMORY as well.  Typical.  “Piss off” I hiss.  In depressive fashion.  I try menacing look.  Suspect I just look suicidal.  I brandish ill feeling and large knife.  For emphasis. 

 SAD yawns.  Feigns blindness.  MEMORY flutters.  All around.  Wild.  Feral.  Rabid.  And strangely attractive.  I spy with my troubled eye.  Something that starts with B. 

We are under attack.  From butterflies.

Butterfly plague descends.  I watch.  Macabrely fascinated.  My hands a net.  Big ones.  Small ones.  Red ones.  Blue ones.  And a lopsided one in psychotic green. Room slowly fills.  Wings flutter.  Effect is not dissimilar to sitting in storm. 

I reach … Reach …

Large clumsy shadow swoops.

And swoops.  And crunches.  Fear shrieks.  Storm now hailstorm.  Of crumbled butterfly.  On floor.  On chairs.  On case-notes.  Like dandruff.  I scowl.  Red feathers a dead give-away. 

Mangy-attention-seeking-bird.

Fear snaps.  Butterfly murder continues.  My past is being sucked.  Into very short digestive system.  Broken butterfly everywhere.  I scowl.  Wave psych notes at snapping beak.  Fear’s eyes glint greedily.  Small bits of paper join crumbled butterfly.

I reach … Reach … Catch faint whiff.  Of loss.  Which leaks.  Through fingers.  Leaving slightly mashed wings.  Of MEMORY. 

This one Fear lets me keep. 

I wipe hands.  Feed remaining butterfly crumbs to Wolf.  It is Christmas.  But I am not really having fun.  SAD slouches.  Taunts me.  With empty boxes.  Beautifully wrapped. Under fake tree. 

Metaphor for life. 

Divide party food between over-fed animals.  Except sodding absent reindeer.  SAD clears throat.  Re-introduces me to GREEF.

GREEF tells me to cry. 

I run.

NOTE: It was not safe for me to have emotions as I was growing up. I felt ‘blank’ most of the time. It was very difficult to recognise and get in touch with my emotions as an adult.

For more information about Wolf click here

Originally written 2007; edited Aug, 2019