Grief
When I was little I only associated the word grief with death. I knew people grieved when a loved one died, and that’s about as far as my understanding of the concept went. On May 13, 2017, I most both the best and worst decision of my life; I bought a puppy. When I held this tiny puppy and knew that she was mine, it was like every broken part of myself fell into place. I had something to take care of that needed me, and depended on me for life. She was so tiny, yet I could almost physically feel her healing the broken pieces of my soul. The love I felt for her when I held her close and kissed her soft, tiny head, was incomparable to anything I’d ever felt in my life.
Unfortunately, I had bought her without the permission of my parents, knowing full well that they had explicitly forbade me. Yet somehow I thought I could make it work. I thought I had found a loophole, a way to have a puppy and not inconvenience my parents. Instead of inconveniencing my parents, however, I inconvenienced several people who helped me out. My friend and her family had agreed to let the puppy sleep at their house at night time until I found more permanent arrangements. The arrangements I had been hoping for were that she live almost exclusively at my then boyfriend’s house, until that didn’t work out. My parents had at that time told me that the puppy was not allowed in their house, because I had deliberately disobeyed them, so my loophole of only having the puppy at my house during the day went under as well. I should have known better.
I was in the middle of this mess of my own creation when my parents approached me with a deal. If I sold the puppy, to a better home and family that could love and care for it, they would buy me another dog down the road when I would be more financially stable. You see, I was moving three hours away to college that August, and had already registered my bird as an emotional support animal. There was absolutely zero chance I would be able to take the puppy with me to college. I should’ve known better.
Well, I took their suggestion and fell to my knees, asking God with all the sincerity I could muster if this was the right choice to make. After I got my answer, I numbly created an ad on KSL for my beloved, and asked my parents if the puppy could stay at our house until I was able to sell her. They agreed, mostly (or completely) out of pity.
On May 29, 2017, my dad drove me to meet the family-to-be of my darling puppy. After the meeting was over, I watched as they drove away with the only thing I’d truly ever loved at this point in my life. I didn’t even have the emotional strength to feel heartbroken at the time, only numb. It wasn’t until later that I broke down and held my bunny in my arms, only to sell him the next day to a loving family, as I knew it would be unfair to ask my family to care for him while I went away to college. A week later, I broke up with my first boyfriend.
It was at this point in my life that my knowledge of grief was challenged. Why was I feeling such a tremendous burden on my soul? My puppy and bunny had not died, just simply gone to live with other families. Why did I feel like my entire world was coming down around me and suffocating me? I would almost have rather died than live the rest of my life like that.
A few months later I was in a relationship with a guy almost 8 years older than me. I knew we weren’t going to last, but he was a rebound and I didn’t want to be single. I moved away to go to college, leaving behind the only life I’d ever really known. It may have only been three hours away, but it may as well have been on the other side of the country for as far removed as I felt. Again, my view of grief was challenged. I felt so empty and alone, sitting in a room that for all intents and purposes, belonged to me now. My pet bird sat on my dresser like she always had, and yet nothing felt the same. None of my old friends contacted me, so I contacted them, only to receive no response.
I began to be bullied by my then boyfriend’s “friends,” one of whom was a girl who had an immense crush on him. They would message me over Facebook, nasty messages with foul language and threats. I told my boyfriend, who was pretty nonchalant about it. When he accused me of messaging this one particular girl when he had told me to block her and ignore her, I tried to defend myself and he would question me constantly, never believing me. I was in tears on my bed because the one person who was supposed to be on my side in that situation was instead accusing me and threatening to block my number. I found out that the girl’s friend had stolen my profile picture and cover picture and made them her own, and had even changed her name to mine. I assume the girl and her friend had conspired to message each other and make it look like I was sending nasty messages to her, and then sent the screenshots to my boyfriend. He believed them, and not me.
I eventually got the courage to break up with him, only to get back with him a couple days later. When he began flirting with one of my friends on Facebook and I called him out on it, he “defended himself” by calling her fat and ugly. I broke it off for good that time, and blocked him so I wouldn’t even be tempted. But ever since then, the sound of the Facebook Messenger app still chill my blood and makes me feel nauseous.
Again, I grieved. I still was convinced that I had done something wrong to cause my ex-boyfriend to mistrust me. I was still convinced that I was in the wrong in that situation, because he made me believe that I was under suspicion and had to prove myself. I grieved the loss of my surety in myself, I grieved the loss of a relationship that I hadn’t even expected to last in the first place. I was 100% better off without him, and yet I still grieved.
It was shortly after that I started hanging out with the man who I eventually married. When we got married and moved in together, I realized that I would no longer be moving up north for the summer, nor would I be visiting home as often as I had been. Then, a harsh thought struck me. Up north was no longer my home. As happy as I was being newly married, and as much as I love my husband, I grieved yet again for the loss of my place in my family. I no longer knew where I fit in with them, and the first family party I attended with my husband left me feeling so left out. My cousins treated me differently, and I desperately wished to talk to them the way I used to be able to. I left that party feeling depressed and lonely, and most of all, out of place. The wonderfulness of being married will always outweigh the grief I feel at being separated from my family, but it does not lessen the grief when I visit my family and cannot even sleep in the same house as them.
Now, living down here at college, I thought that things were going well. My husband I had both had good jobs, could easily pay rent and bills and take care of our birds, and attend school to get our degrees. And I loved my job! I worked as a CNA, taking care of residents whom I grew to love. That all came crashing down when I lost my job, due to negligence on my part. After coming out of the meeting with my now ex-boss, I got into the car and sobbed into my husband’s arms. I cried all the way home, and my hands felt heavy as I texted my mom and told her I no longer had a job. I cried into my husband’s arms and said “I’ll never get to see my residents ever again...” as I felt the weight of all of my mistakes come crashing down on me. I felt like my grief would overtake me. Nevertheless, I picked myself up and attended my next class, and had to act as if nothing had happened, as if I hadn’t just had a piece of myself ripped out. My mom commended me on not lashing out in anger, but I was too sad to be angry. I had just been fired from the only job I actually ever liked, and the sadness was overwhelming.
I have come to realize throughout these past two years that grief is not about death. Grief is about loss. Loss of a pet, loss of two pets, loss of two relationships, loss of comfort, loss of friends, loss of confidence, loss of dependence, loss of familiarity, loss of a job. When I sold my puppy and felt all those mended broken pieces shatter all over again, I thought that my grief would heal with time. It’s been almost two years, and I can say that I know the grief will never truly go away. Whenever I look at one of the few pictures I have of her, my heart aches inside my chest. As I sit home alone when I would have been at work, I think of my residents and how I’ll never see them again, and the coworkers I’ll never work with again, and I weep. I grieve, because grief is loss. And while I don’t have much hope I’ll ever be rid of this grief, I can only hope that it’ll make me stronger. Someday.
