Grief - Blog Posts

You know that thing with a ball in a jar, where the ball represents grief and the jar represents you? And while the ball doesn't change, the jar gets bigger, representing that grief doesn't get less, it's just that you grow bigger. When I got first introduced to that concept, it seemed ridiculous. But since then... I know that it's true. There's certain things in my life, if I actively think about them, they get me just as mad and worked up as if they happened yesterday. However, they don't occupy my mind 24/7 anymore, like they did when they did happen recently. And I think that's exactly what they mean with the ball in a jar analogy. And I suppose that's better than nothing.

Months have passed but why does it still hurt like hell?

I am arranging the clothes in my closet and everything in here just reminds me of my mom. I miss her so much that I wish she’s right beside me now.

Indeed, grief and longing is not about the big things. It’s the small things that crumple your heart and crush it again and again into small pieces.

It's nearly been 8 months now, I don't know what to say. I can't even tell you how much I cry everyday. I wear your jewellery around my neck but it just ties me to the pain. We knew you were going to leave us but you're never prepared for that day. Your birthday is coming up. How are you not going to be here for that day? We talk about you constantly but still I just don't know what to say.

I don't know where you are now

And haven't even known you well

But kept you close to my heart

For the way that you helped

Me and probably many others

And so I wanted to tell

You about the call I made

And all the tears that fell

Silent Cry

Really if I'd knew how to

I would just take care of me

but every attempt falls trough

in absence of some air to breath.

Made all the moves I know my dear

wishing you'd say something

and every word untold by me

screams in deep despair darling.

“How can you enjoy horror?! How can you enjoy feeling fear and anxiety? What's wrong with you?”

I came across a video discussing this and it really made me think about myself, a horror fan who delves deep into the genre and loves to explore the different subgenres. But why do I enjoy it so much? Why do I prefer to sit in a state of anxiety and fear and watch others suffer?

The general answer would be: Because I am comfortable in that state. Those feelings I have lived within for most of my life, and it is where I feel most ‘safe’ in a sense. I feel that a lot of people can relate to horror in various ways.

Why?

Trauma. It all relates to the trauma I have endured from a very early age. Horror gives me various ways of sitting in these emotions and processing them. Even the different subgenres offer me different points of views and thoughts on how to approach these feelings and release them. No, I’m not talking about acting upon violence, because that’s just a very small part of horror.

Body horror is my favorite subgenre. The drastic metamorphosis of the human form turning into something we cannot comprehend - something that is alien to us. The suffering of being in that form that’s in between reality and the unknown. Struggling to understand it, attacking it because we don’t. I see my own body this way. I have never felt comfortable in my physical body. No, I do not suffer a debilitating disease or suffer the loss of body parts, but when I look at myself in the mirror I wonder, “Is this really what I look like?”

I forget that I do not look like the image I have of myself in my head and being reminded of that makes my stomach feel tight and I feel actual fear. I do not like how I look on the outside. I also do not like knowing what’s on the inside. Blood and gore make me queasy, not only on the screen or in a book, but in reality. The knowledge that my body is filled with fleshy pieces and liquid that can so easily be spilled and lead to my demise is terrifying.

Gothic horror. This one is a bit more subdued. It’s the past versus the present, time leaking into the future. It’s a reminder of how the past affects the present and how, in turn, the present affects the future. My past clings to me, I live in it. I am doing my best to let go, and movies in the subgenre and usually about doing just that. The happy ending of moving on from past trauma, of learning to cope healthily or close a chapter of your life to look forward to the future. This is a subject I desperately try to improve in myself, but this subgenre is where I feel so… understood.

Cosmic horror is so intriguing to me. It makes me dive into analyzing otherworldly subjects, working my mind to try and grasp whatever understanding I can from the horror introduced. It shows humanity struggling against an unknown but overcoming it… or being driven mad. It reminds me what it is to be human; how not understanding everything is terrifying, but real. We are not meant to understand everything, we cannot scientifically break down things and we can either accept that or fight against it.

Humanity’s true hubris is trying to understand the core of the universe, to examine everything in a way that we will have infinite knowledge and pluck at the strings of reality so that we can control it. How we, as a species, crave domination. This subgenre makes me take a step back, realize there are things we should not meddle in, and sometimes we should accept things as they are… lest we see what lies in the mountains of madness.

Paranormal fiction gives me hope. Strange, isn’t it? The idea of ghosts or demons haunting us. Thinking that we could be tormented by an entity that lives beside us that we only need to give an ounce of attention to. So why does it fill me with faith? Because I feel so alone. Not only due to my schedule of being someone who is only active over the evening and night, but because I have a habit of isolating myself due to my intense fear of abandonment. The paranormal is unseen right next to us and, as much as I don’t believe in spirits, heaven, or hell, a part of me does hope that maybe those I have lost are still here.

That I am not sitting here alone at my computer. Perhaps a phantom stands with me, watching me in intrigue of this new technology they cannot understand. Maybe a specter paces the hallway, reliving a certain moment in their lives over and over again, not knowing that I am here… but they are present. Is there a fiend wrapped around my shoulders, damning me throughout the day by placing me in difficult situations and causing havoc around me? Well, they’re dealing with my annoying optimism and having to listen to me break down, too. If they felt joy about it, I’m sure they would be tired of it by now. We’re just nagging each other at this point. Yet, neither of us would be alone.

It’s about grief.

It’s about self-animosity.

It’s about trauma.

It’s about feeling understood.

I enjoyed the show Stranger Things, for example, because I could relate to the characters. I was a gifted child who was exploited by the authority around me, I never felt that I fit in, and I tried so hard to do so. I was smart, but in turn I was looked down upon and still told I was not by adults. I had special interests but never found friends who shared in those. I was afraid of being alone.

Enjoying horror does not mean there is anything “wrong” with you. It’s a platform for exploring deep emotions, expressing questions we are too afraid to ask, and finding comfort in a way you can understand in a safe place. (By safe, I mean your living room or bed.) I know horror can be dangerous, but it can also be a form of therapy. Writing in the genre allows you to work through uncomfortable emotions, to get your feelings out in a way that doesn’t avoid those emotions.

I do not speak for everyone, and this is about my person views and experiences. I would love to hear the views and stories of others.

Tonight, I let go.

Of all the pain, despair, misery, and images that haunt me on this date. I release them to the wind, to the rain, to the earth and let them become nothing but distant memories of my youth. I move forward holding the love, the warmth, and the joy that those years with you brought me. I will celebrate the life of all of those I hold dear. I will not dwell in death, but I will flourish in the gifts you all gave me.

This day has held me hostage for my entire life, but I felt you today. I felt you in that moment where the rain picked up and you cried with me. I felt your acknowledgement of me, my love, and my promise to surrender my grief. I stood lighter, the world felt brighter- my ears even popped, and I could hear more clearly!

I will carry forward the happiness we created.

to quote my late father, “everything that feels huge is small, and everything that seems small is enormous” and he’s certainly not the first to have that thought, but when he said it to me, it felt revolutionary. the idea rooted and stuck itself between my ribcage and i’ve carried it with me, so much that it feels like it’s become apart of the fabric of my being

splatoon 2 playlists

The Poet E.E. Cummings once described the moon as "the Lily of the Heavens". Our word Lily comes from the Greek word Lilium which could mean "Pure", the Greeks called the flower Leirion meaning "True". The painter, Claude Monet very famously painted a collection of over two hundred and fifty impressionist art pieces of water lilies, that specific genus is called Nymphaea, which has the root of the Greek word Nymph, meaning bride. Some now use that word in relation to beauty. A large portion of Monet's paintings were created after the death of his wife, during and/or post-world-war-two. And some of these paintings as well were composed while he had cataracts. The products of the clouded vision of his eyes. I have been lucky enough to witness some of the paintings myself, some here in Indy, while we had them on exhibit during Newfield's "Monet and Friends", or on their permeant exhibit in Chicago, or in Cleveland or where have you. I think it's something so beautiful that we get to interact with art on these levels where our human experience is so contextual and subjective. Just so particular to us as singular individuals. Like you probably will view George Hitchcock's Calypso in a totally different light than I will. I will see it as a piece of art depicting a woman, mourning and grieving the loss of her lover Odysseus. Longing, Pining, Loving. You might just see it as a painting of a sea nymph, a "water lily" one might say now that you know some other words. But art is also objective, and out-of-context sometimes too. Monet states in his own observation and intention of his works “it would produce the illusion of an endless whole, of water with no horizon and no shore”. That is to say like the reach of their intention is finite, but our interaction and interpretation of it is in-finite. It is not definite. An “Endless Whole”. You might know that I, as an individual, I don't view grief/love, joy/sorrow as separate things. They are the same coin, and they buy into this great experience called life. And in contradiction to that, they are probably not too dissimilar as well to “water with no horizon or shore”. Monet probably painted these painting and thought of his wife, Monet probably painted and thought of the war going on around him. E.E. Cummings probably wrote his poems at about or around the same time Monet was painting his collection. While also(!) George Hitchcock was painting "Calypso". Isn’t that beautiful? The Rendering of Associations. I'd like to call it. If we use some entomologic arguments here based off of what I’ve told you in this ‘dissertation’ (jokingly, basically), one might be able build off what Cummings wrote as "the Moon, the true pure beauty of the Heavens.”. Like what have I spent the last five-hundred-some-odd words writing about here. Painters and Paintings? Poetry? Love? Loss? Have I been writing this to the Moon, or is it to you maybe? Or this to one particular special person right now that I think about in my reflections of the moon, or flowers or water? These ‘Illusions’ as Monet might describe or in my case here an allusion of a seamless image. “The Rendering of Associations of The Endless Whole of Life.”

is it really that bad that i just want someone to like me? i've been miserable all my fucking life, and now, when things could be happening, you come along with my greatest fears and tell me all the things that i don't want to hear, but i know that you're right and i hate that. he gives me the attention i crave of you, and he's sweet and funny and kinda stupid but these are all things i could work with. if he wasn't in love with me this would be so much better. i want something fun, with no strings attached, i just want a distraction from you and all the things you make me feel. i want to know what it's like to be happy with someone to feel loved and wanted, not dying all the time cause you held my hand once, to help me get off the ground. i want to be able to look someone in the eyes and think "i could love this person" instead of "he has this flaw that you don't". and here i am, thinking that i finally could be having fun, and you come around like you're the voice of fucking reason and tell me exactly what's wrong with me. that i am selfish, that i'm breaking his heart, that i shouldn't be so focused in myself (but no one ever has, is it a crime if i want it now?). and you're a fucking hypocrite in some things you've said. you told me he thinks about every walk in the park and every little touch, as if i don't die every day just by looking at you. as if i don't scroll through your texts and re-read them a million times. as if i don't talk to my friends about you twenty-four-seven. as if i don't try to spend every moment with you. as if i don't always make myself avaliable. as if you don't know what you're doing and you just see me as a friend. i love you and i hate you and i don't know if i should cry or shout or kiss you or never speak to you again. and the worst part of it all? i'll never stop loving you.

Grief is, in it's purest form, ever-lasting. You do not "stop" grieving, you merely stop doing it so much.

Grief, in it's purest form, is necessary, also. It is self-care. It is keeping you sane.

So. Grieve. Do so loudly, or quietly. Let it out, my friend.

Sometimes the grief really is love persevering huh

By Laura Gilpin

Someday will be better

One day you wake up and you live alone, even with two flatmates, and you buy your own groceries, when you can afford it, and you go to class and work and sometimes the gym. And you go to the doctor, and the dentist, and your therapist and your friend’s house, and you take the medicine that keeps you from killing yourself, and you get out in the sunshine and eat food that fills you and make barely enough money to stay alive anyway, and someday will be better, you know that, but someday isn’t today, and today your jaw is clenched and your thoughts are shrieks that hate your friends and someday will be better, but right now it’s all you can do to make ramen so you don’t have to use a knife because someday will be better and you better be around to see it, and your clenched jaw turns to gritted teeth and you can’t bring yourself to shower but damnit, you brush your teeth and think that someday will be better, and your gums bleed when you floss and you want to scream but you’ve been stopped up like a forgotten bottle of wine and you’re not sure you know how to anymore, and now you’ve been staring at your bleeding gums and the void in your gut aches and you --

collapse in bed. 

You remember how to breathe.

Your heart is here. Your lungs are here. There is quiet between your thoughts.

You are here.

And someday will be better.

Santa Muerte, Our Lady of Holy Death

Rainbow with a Black Pen

Crimson flash of pain

rusty orange dried blood

golden sun on sidewalk,

edged by mossy mud.

Clear blue rolling tears;

I crumple to my knees.

Indigo grows twilight

and violet my grief.

It's okay to 'grieve' things that aren't just death. I've allowed myself to grieve a friendship ending, a situationship, losing something important to me, etc. It's okay to give yourself time to process the loss of something. Grief looks different for everyone, try to find a way that works for you to help make it easier for you.

- Elizabeth

Drowning

Sketch with ref. I’ve been thinking about this one for a while. I really, really like this pose. It looks like a statue. It’s so expressive.

DO NOT ❌copy, trace, or otherwise steal credit for this work.

C.S. Lewis once wrote,

"I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief"

And I think we all needed to hear that.

I don’t know what to call this thing that I’m feeling. All I know is if I start screaming I will never stop.

the grief of loving too much is heavy but it is better than the regret of not trying at all

‘Love is the one thing that we’re capable of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space.’

“Eulogy from a Physicist” by Aaron Freeman, with quotes from Interstellar by Christopher Nolan, and images from NASA, Interstellar, Getty, Petrichara, and Reuters.

1- NASA: GOODS-South.

2- NASA: NGC 1850.

3- NASA: Iberian Peninsula.

4- Christopher Nolan: Interstellar.

5- NASA: From the Earth to the Moon.

6- Hannah La Folette Ryan: Subway Hands.

7- Adams Evans: Heart Nebula.

8- NASA: Exploring the Antennae.

9- NASA: Crescent Moon from the International Space Station.

10- Petrichara.

11- Getty Images.

12- NASA: SMACS 0723.

13- Reuters

High King Peter the Magnificent; War; Sword of Aslan; the Boy-King; the Once-And-Future-King

before, in the shadows of a life that has long ceased to be your own, war was suits and uniforms, severe men and overworked mothers. war was looming large, approaching fast. war was terror lurking in the skies, a constant fear of the open air. war was everywhere; your brother and sister forever slighted by all things turned into luxury inside your home. and sure, you only remember the before once it turns into the after, but war—no matter the where of it all, you remember war.

war: standing tall, standing straight, standing with the weight of worlds borne on youthful shoulders; war: a shadow, a streak of vivid red and vicious gold; war: a man-turned-boy-turned-man.

war: steady arms that cling with welcome desperation, a rallying cry that makes your heart burn bright; war: a stumbling boy bearing skies that turn red before they ever find their blue. war: familiar like no other, from cradle to your shaking adult hands.

before-turned-after, you hear your mother—unsweetened tea, old perfumes, and factory oils scrubbed out with rationed soap—whisper to her friends about war. you sit on wooden steps—not stone, never stone in the after—and dig your nails into your shins. war, forever burning bright, sits at your back with the skies and the sword's edge. you lean to feel the shift in his breath, to remember that with everything lost, war remains.

she let the war in, your mother says in words tinted with war-weak drink. she lets war sleep on the same floor as her children, she confesses, like a wolf amongst sheep. you dig your nails deeper. war, his forehead against your back, sighs.

you know war best, cradle to the here and now. he wipes your tears with too-soft hands until you miss the swords and bows like the air inside your lungs. he brushes your sister's hair, listens to your brother with intent. war holds it together in the cracked marble that you've all become. war, warm and familiar, holds on tight.

when you start to wear your mother's old dresses, outgrowing your own, when you start to paint your lips a new shade of red, war's reflection almost cracks the fragile glass of your composure. he watches, looming, bearing the crimson skies like a gift rather than the curse it grew to be. his eyes—blue still, too blue for england clouds and england air—carry even more, a looking glass for worlds long closed to you and him. the curve of his smile makes you ache for string and wood, makes your fingers crave the weight of pulling it all taut. his shoulders are broad, his hands calloused again.

over your shoulder, your mirror shows a sword stained beyond repair. you ache with the wish for the battlefield. you fear it as you always did, even when you called it home. war, a rag in hand and shoulders straight, hums in tune with the memory of arrows loosened from your gentle hands.

you leave before the blood can reach your polished shoes.

——susan pevensie learns of ares, of atlas, of war on a horse. she weeps for the brother she finds in them.

Reunion

(I’m not 100% sure what the etiquette is for formatting, so my apologies if this looks awful.)

Warnings: Angst? Yeah, angst. The usual Order 66 feels. Rex being soft.

This is a character I came up with during the Bad Batch weeks, and I might be posting little ficlets about Miah and her clones, because her heart is full. Enjoy :)

_______________________________________________________________

Miah’s reunion with Captain Rex came mere weeks after Order 66, a time fraught with peril for any who held ties to the Jedi, let alone a Jedi themself. She didn’t know what planet she landed on, only that it had enough people for her to hide amongst. The terror and uncertainty caused by the Great Purge fractured the remaining Jedi, so Miah travelled alone, unsure whether there were other survivors out there, somewhere in the Galaxy. Even the fate of her Master, Obi-Wan, was a mystery to her.

Walking the busy streets in the evening, Miah reflected on what led her there, as she often did; what else existed for her to dwell on, except the past? The present seemed so dark, so bleak and shattered - so far from what it was supposed to look like. 

Underneath the folds of her cloak, Miah’s hand found the amulet Echo gave to her; she screwed her eyes shut, coming to a stand-still in the rain as another wave of grief and pain threatened to topple the young Jedi. These feelings, powerful, and dangerous, acted as constant companions that swarmed to fill the void left in the Force where her friends should be. They made her feel less alone.

She slowly opened her eyes again, tearing them away from the star-dotted sky above, her mind desperately wondering where did we go wrong? 

The wind blew through the street at a howling pace, many bypassers losing their hoods. Miah’s stayed up, and she hoped it wasn’t too conspicuous. Across from her, a man hurriedly tried to cover his head again, but not quickly enough; she watched him turn, saw the flash of blond hair and all-too-familiar features, immediately recognising the man she’d been honoured to call Vod. 

Elation caught her tongue, swelling inside her chest until it was bursting. Finally, Miah thought with a smile, a friend who isn’t dead.

Then, as Rex’s gaze locked with hers, a light sparking in them, Miah’s memory caught up with her emotions. Cold fear dropped into her stomach like a ten-tonne weight, and the smile vanished in an instant. Before she could think about his expression, the way Rex had acted, the clearly out-of-place circumstances they’d reunited under, she turned and fled into the marketplace. 

Concentrating in order to avoid panicking, Miah cursed when she heard his heavy-booted steps falling close behind. Years spent together on battlefields meant he knew her every trick, could predict her every move. The icy hand of dread once more clutched at her heart, but Miah refused it; she would not be responsible for the death of another Clone. Especially not him. 

“Miah! Wait!”

She ducked under a passing merchant cart, continuing to run without any real idea as to where she was going. But this proved to be a fatal mistake when the alley became a dead-end, and Miah stood at the wrong side.

Hands shaking under her cloak, fingers grazing the cool metal of her lightsaber, she turned around - hoping beyond hope she somehow lost him in the crowd. But, no; at the other end of the alley stood Captain Rex, someone Miah used to gravitate toward, now she shrunk away from him.

“Please,” she whispered, holding her hands out as they quivered, silently asking Rex to stop, “don’t...I can’t...not again. Please. Don’t make me do this.”

If Miah had been able to look at the former trooper, she might have noticed the softness in his eyes, the way his steps faltered as Rex saw her fear, and his devastation at seeing his friend so distraught by his presence. But her eyes refused to settle on him, to see the face of a million men, the faces of the Clones she struck down on Coruscant. Her friends.

“Miah,” he said softly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She made a sound that could have been a sob, but it got stifled and bitten down. “Don’t try and trick me, Rex. I don’t want this. Leave me alone, please, brother.”

In the darkened alley, rain fell heavily on them both: the Jedi who fought for so long, she no longer had the energy to raise her lightsaber in defence of her own life; and the Captain who had been turned into an enemy by circumstances beyond his control. Neither moved, and neither was willing to harm the other. But the tension, the shared knowledge of recent occurrences between the former comrades kept them on edge, reluctant to act in case something went wrong.

Finally, Rex slowly raised his hands in the air, his brow furrowed and a deep frown on his face as he took a cautious step forward. “Vod’ika, I swear to you, I’m not a threat. My Inhibitor chip was removed by Ahsoka.”

Miah blinked, almost looking at him. “...Ahsoka?”

A tiny flicker of hope appeared in her voice when she nearly let herself believe it, nearly allowing herself to believe there was one other Jedi alive, because even now, after everything, Miah struggled to think of Rex as anything but trustworthy and loyal. Which he was, but how did she know his chip wasn’t active?

“Yes,” he said, seeing an opportunity to calm her, “Ahsoka survived. I helped her get away. The chips caused it all, the Clones, we didn’t mean to do it, Fives-”

“I know,” she said, “I remember. A purpose bigger than any of us could comprehend.”

Rex nodded, hesitant and unsure of his next move. “I don’t know how to make you believe me.”

Miah finally looked him in the eye, resisting the stinging in her own. “Neither do I.”

Stuck on the path back to each other, they continued to stand in the rain, away from the bustling city crowds and the heaving market. They seemed to exist on the very edges of the throbbing veins of society, which stung when memories of when they were front and centre, back to back, in the very midst of it all crept into their thoughts. A curious thing, how two people so intimately tied to actions determining the fate of the Galaxy could pass unnoticed, two lonesome figures in the evening downpour, nameless faces to be forgotten. 

And yet, to them, forgetting the other’s face was an inconceivable thought; how could they, when the clearest years of their life were spent building an iron trust, a bond forged in battle? Rex had been one of the men to give Miah her name, a gift she never took for-granted, not for a second; and so, placing her faith into that bond, she reached out into the Force, the first time since the shock of Order 66 caused Miah to cut herself off from it, searching for the truth.

“Rex...you’re not lying to me, are you? I really don’t want to hurt you, I can’t…”

The former Captain shook his head, a soft, reassuring smile making its home on his lips. A familiarity surrounded the expression, helping to convince her. “I swear, on the memory of Fives, my inhibitor chip is gone, and I am not going to try to kill you.”

Miah hesitated only a moment, the solemn vow carrying enough weight to lower her defensive stance. She stepped forward, holding out her arm for him to grasp. “I’m sorry, Rex. I know Clones whose chip have been activated don’t speak like this, I just had to be sure…”

He clasped her forearm tightly, reaching over with his free hand to grasp her shoulder. “You have nothing to apologise for, Miah’ika, I understand.” Tears gathered in his eyes, and Rex bowed their foreheads together. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you again.”

Miah laughed softly, cradling the back of his head. “I think I might have an idea, Vod.”

Sobre luto e questões de fé

Odeio a expressão "se acalma", porque a última coisa que ela serve, é pra se acalmar o oposto,na verdade, só vai fazer as pessoas se sentirem mais raiva ou ficar mais histérica.Porque pessoas incríveis morrem?, por que ela teve que partir?, por que ela teve que me deixar? Por que a Ambulância não veio mais rápido?.Por que Deus não respondeu ? por que Ele não a salvou ? ONDE ESTAVA DEUS ?PRA QUE SERVE DEUS SE ELE NÃO NOS RESPONDE QUANDO PRECISAMOS DELE ?????

Me responda ?