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The selfish and nasty one

Now that I have experienced grief - no, wait. One does not simply "experience" grief.

Grief is like a rude, smelly, ugly, and abusive guy who shows up on your couch one morning and will not leave. You wonder where he came from and plead with him to leave.

Get outside, enjoy the fresh air. Surely you have frie... er, family who would feel obligated to help you. You make threats of calling the cops, but he knows you won't.

Instead he sinks further into the couch and becomes one with the remote. He has wild mood swings between lethargy and destructive anger.

Destroying is divine. He throws vases against the wall, kicks the dog, and pushes your wife. He gets his truck stuck in your lawn and blows out your Bose surround sound system at 3am. He drinks, always, and yells at your kids.

You come to hate him, despise him, plot his death in the early mornings. But at the same time you just don't have the energy for a fight. And a part of you, a very small part, is afraid of what will happen if he leaves. Is afraid you will not know how to function.

I have lived with Grief, the selfish and nasty one, and I have survived.

Even though Grief is gone, it is always lurking around the corner waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And strike it does, utilizing every element of surprise and strength it can gather. Which is a lot.

It's not a longing for a lost love, and old, happened-some-time-ago grief that is eloquently written about. It hits with full force, and I am left feeling the same way I felt when I found out she died.

I must learn and understand that, though gone, this abusive house guest will still come over for dinner once in a blue moon and break a couple of plates against the wall.

But I also must learn that this guest will leave shortly after arriving. And at least he's off the couch.