This Wednesday, I will attend a grief support group. The cohort meets twice per month, and while I am pressed to find any hope in my life right now, I am hopeful this group can provide something I’ve yet to discover. A. left this world six weeks ago, and I’m still here, stuck in a feedback cycle from hell. Yesterday, I made my first attempt at yoga since she died. But grief defeated me in five minutes. A. introduced me to yoga several years ago. We would frequently practice together. “How’s my form, boo?” I would ask her from downward dog. Every pose is a different face of grief, repositioned.
In a previous post, I wrote about the insidiousness of companionship. You don’t realize it until they’re gone, but when you lose the person with whom you’ve shared the last decade, you discover that, through those many years, they’ve enmeshed themselves in nearly every facet of your life. And so, how does one piece themselves together when everything has been blown to bits? In this current state, I do not have a life. I’m simply surviving. I’m reminded of the soldier on Omaha Beach in Saving Private Ryan: the man, dazed and confused, walks aimlessly while holding his severed arm.
I suppose there is no yardstick for grief. Six weeks out, I don’t feel I’ve gained any ground in coming back from this. I have little hope for my future. Suicide is a daily thought, but, as of today, it lacks any real intent. So, I’ll be at the support group. I’ll share my story. And I’ll hope for a sense of sad comradery.