Grief has been chalked down to an exact model, commonly known as the seven stages.
I know this because I was given a booklet which said so — it had pictures that were intentionally left blank so that I could colour them in.
Of course there was the shock, the “inciting incident” of grief. For me this was the scariest part, the overwhelming numbness that comes from the realization of one’s worst nightmares. In those moments, I would completely depersonalize, becoming nothing but an organism overridden and running on auto-pilot.
Soon to follow would be the other stages: denial, grief, anger, bargaining and — much, much later — acceptance. I would feel those “stages” in waves. They would turn up loudly, unannounced and intrusive in the worst way, hitting the hardest when I would least expect them to.
Depression of course hung around longer than it needed to, manifesting itself in new and equally terrifying ways. I stole a discarded “MOVE UBC” sign, took home 100 copies of the newspaper, filling my room with junk I didn’t want or need, trying to make sense of a mental, physical and spiritual attack while simultaneously not trying to let it consume me.
Most of the time, I am fine. I have learned to laugh and smile again. I even clean my room sometimes — but 11 months later, there are still moments which take me back. A body pressed up against mine, a slight stroke of the hand, the adrenaline that comes with getting to know someone — these moments still make my heart race.
But they don’t make me happy. These moments are quickly tainted for me, as is the way I have approached any kind of intimacy or desire.
This wasn’t the person that I used to be. I used to love the idea of casual intimacy, getting to know and discover someone new. But now even a harmless swipe makes me reminiscent of what I used to have and will never be able to have again.
And when I do indulge, the next morning the grief fairy pays me a visit and I am forced to reckon with my own misdeeds.
So I have found ways to counter this by not attaching names to faces and closed-mouth, closed-eye kisses — and yet those are the moments in which I feel, the moments I secretly and guiltily crave for because in those moments I have learned to feel not numb, not perpetually sad. It’s a rush of oxytocin that hasn’t come straight from a bottle.
And still it’s a lose-lose situation, as my lust has been laced with guilt and a devastating fear of the unknown. But this isn’t the future that I wish to have. I look forward to a day when I am able to take small steps forward, a day when I am able to call someone else my partner.
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