I Swear You Will Be Fine

Grief is funny. I’m suddenly attached to things that are supposed to have no meaning. Yesterday I dropped my phone and its screen protector shattered. I had no choice but to remove it and as I was about to throw it out, an irrational thought occurred to me – I can’t throw this out because this was the screen protector on my phone when you were here. You touched this screen protector. So, I placed the shattered screen protector in a Ziploc bag and into the “box of Joshua” that I have (the box I wrote about a few posts ago). This makes zero sense. I am well aware that your touch and fingerprints have likely faded in the past almost-nine months, but I just couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. Things that are supposed to have no value – like a used screen protector – suddenly is a small part of you. Irrationally, I’m suddenly attached to these things as if they are a piece of you and losing them is almost equivalent to losing you again. Rationally thinking: I’m probably kidding myself. I guess grief makes people do funny things.

Another example is the Christmas presents you got for me last year. We couldn’t spend Christmas together and actually agreed on not getting each other gifts, but we both did anyway. You got me the puzzle that I did with your mum, and instead of throwing out the puzzle box, I displayed it on one of my shelves. The box on its own, under different circumstances, would have had little meaning. But because we are under these specific circumstances – it is something you touched, something you picked out – it’s suddenly so precious. For Christmas, you also bought my bunnies their favorite strawberry treat. Like you are with Knight and Cadbury, I’m also severely overprotective of my bunnies and only allow them healthy treats. You took note of this and bought the exact healthy treat they love. Today, it is still sitting on my TV cabinet in my room, unopened and untouched. I’ve placed it there since I received it in January, telling myself that I’d let my bunnies have it when their treats run out, but I just can’t bring myself to open it. It’s something you touched, you bought, and I just can’t bear to rip it open and have it just “end” after my bunnies eat them. I know you would have wanted my bunnies to enjoy the treats, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to give it to them. I think my irrational mind has associated giving the treats to my bunnies with losing a piece of you. I know it’s silly – you are not the bag of treats you bought, but it still feels like a part of you. Now I’m thinking of just placing the untouched bag of treats into my “box of Joshua”, but I’m struggling with the fact that you’d want them to have it. What a dilemma.

This hasn’t happened yet, but I am quite worried about festivities. Because my family isn’t grieving the way I am, I am forced to participate in festivities like Chinese New Year and Deepavali. So far, no one has asked if I have a boyfriend. If it were up to me, I’d definitely say “yes” to that question – that is the only answer I’d want to say. But… knowing my family, they’d instantly say “no” – not because they don’t like you, but because they’d want to avoid further questions (as if people’s minds instantly go to “is he alive”) – that’s just how they are. The thought of having to hear my family say “no” to this question is distressing me more that I’d like it to. Again, rationally, I know that “no” doesn’t nullify our relationship or erase what we had. We still have us and our memories even if they say “no”, but I just can’t deal with it. Once again, this situation has not happened yet (though I’m sure it is close to happening, since I am of age now to receive the “do you want to get married in the future” type of questions) but I’ve already thought of a solution. If anyone decides to ask that, I’d ask my family to answer, “no one we’re meeting yet”. They can’t say “no one we have met” because they have met you, so that would be a lie. This is the best, most honest response I could come up with that appeases both my parents and I. “No one we’re meeting yet” is the truth because they aren’t meeting you in Heaven yet, and it isn’t a “no”. I just have to convince my family to say this. One step at a time, right?

Oh, the funny things grief makes us do – though none of them are actually funny. Most of them are actually quite sad. That’s just how it is, isn’t it? All things considered, I think I’m quite content with where I am right now. Of course, I hate this life – that’s not what I mean when I say I’m content. I mean in my entire journey of grief, I think I am quite alright with remaining where I am. I am speaking about you in the present tense. To those I am not familiar with and who aren’t aware of your passing, I talk about you as if you are on Earth. I think about us and our memories all the time, sometimes without much sadness. I talk to you all the time. I text you all the time. It does get exhausting, the way grief exhausts people, but I think I am quite alright with this progress. Not sure I’ll do any better than this, honestly. Not sure if this is me reaching the acceptance stage – likely not, as I am still dancing around the other stages most of the time – but as a whole, I think I’m quite alright with where I am (grief-wise).  

As always, I can’t wait to see you again. I love you more, always, and forever. (I wonder if the readers recite these two lines with me, haha!)

Love always,
Sha