the fear

I am terrified of my grief. I’m terrified by the idea that, with every new person I meet, it’s one more person who didn’t know the person that existed before. I’m terrified by the idea that there was a before, and there is an after, and that sometimes, they feel entirely discontinuous - two separate entities, with two separate lives, and entirely separate experiences. I’m terrified of people asking what my dad does for a living, where he lives, or how he’s doing, because 99% of the time, my response provokes nothing but silence and discomfort. I’m terrified of the guilt that comes with it, the sense that you’ve pushed someone else to feel uneasy, simply by expressing my own circumstances and experiences. It’s this sense of irrevocable change, entirely beyond your control. The sense that you can never even describe the person that you were before.

I’m terrified of negotiating these conversations; of manoeuvring through malaise and condolences, of regret and discomfort, for both parties. I’m terrified of how much courage is required, not only from me, but from the people around me, who have to decide whether or not they’re allowed to ask about my dad, about my memories of him, and my experience of grief. I’m terrified that this reluctance becomes circular, and that the less we discuss grief, the more uncomfortable we become, and the reluctance only festers. It takes energy, it takes courage, and it takes caution in order to broach these topics - but let’s not mistake the fear of something for its difficulty. Because once you’ve made that first step, and you’ve mentioned that person’s name, or asked how it feels, you’ve done the hard work. You’ve created the opportunity to discuss death, and grief, and the life that comes afterwards, without placing the burden on someone who’s already snowed under with guilt and fear and loss. Don’t be terrified that you’re going to ‘remind’ someone of their loved one - because, in all honesty, they definitely haven’t forgotten about it.

I’m terrified that it’s not interesting to talk about my dad - that nobody really wants to know what his favourite joke was, or what we ate for dinner on Fridays, or the unique and wonderful ways in which he comforted us when things felt desperate. I’m terrified that, underneath it all, we don’t talk about grief because we don’t care about those who are no longer with us, those who we’ve never met. I’m terrified that, for the rest of my life, I will have be alone in this: not wanting to upset my sister, my mum, or our dad’s friends, by reminding them of him, and provoking their sadness on what might have otherwise been a ‘good’ day. I’m terrified that I’m part of the problem - not in terms of discomfort, but in terms of not wanting to remind people of the loss that we live with. I’m terrified, too, that we aren’t experiencing the same grief, and that, although we’re united in the experience of living with it, we’re isolated from one another in terms of what we’re grieving. Because we’re not just grieving a father, a friend, or a partner - we’re grieving the unique and wonderful relationships that we had with him as individuals. We’re grieving the nicknames, the jokes, and the feelings; the people that we were when we were with him. I’m terrified that we’re even more alone in this than we thought.

But I think our loved ones deserve better than fear. They deserve better than hesitancy, anxiety, discomfort. They deserve moments of indulgence, where we laugh, and cry, and celebrate the ugliness of losing someone so beautiful. They deserve to be remembered, discussed, and missed, and they are worth the courage and energy involved.

So let’s not be terrified. Let’s not confuse difficult with impossible, and uncomfortable with taboo. Let’s talk about loss, and love, and death, and the life that comes afterwards. Let’s break the chain, and be brave - because it is the least our loved ones deserve.