I’m currently in a strange state of grief, one I didn’t anticipate but, truthfully, I should have. Not that the anticipation would have done anything other than rob the glimmers of happiness from a situation. As has been stated many times, I feel things deeply. My emotions are quite large and I tend to feel everything in a big way. This can be positive, but it can also be negative. I asked my therapist if it was a disorder, as so many things seem to be…if you ask the internet. She said, “It’s called being an artist. The greatest works of art, music, poetry, writing…they all come from the big feelers.” I enjoy being an artist, and I love crafting my musings into the written word. But I can’t always say I enjoy the big feelings part, such as right now.
There was a post I saw on Facebook once that read, “Everyone talks about how painful breakups are. Yeah, romance is hard to lose, but why does no one ever talk about friend breakups?” The quote always stuck with me, because when you really think about it, a lot of the relationships in our lives that stand the test of time are not, in fact, romantic. They are friends. Friends who see us at our best and through our worst. Friends who watch us grow and change. Friends who share in our excitement, our passions, and friends who share their excitement and passions with us in exchange. So when a friendship ends, a true, solid, deeply rooted friendship, it brings on a grief unlike anything else, or so I am now learning. Now I’m not saying that the grief is worse than any other form, because that’s not true, but rather that it is different. My current experience with this form of grief is just how hard it is to define. There is no physical death, no closure to be found. There is no hatred or animosity. Simply, or at least from my perspective, the end of an era. The quiet end of what feels like a lifetime of bonding. The grief isn’t as easily understood by others as grieving the loss of a romantic relationship, because western culture really seems to frown upon the idea that you can truly love someone that you don’t share a bed or blood with. But we can, and we do. And for someone that feels things in such a large capacity, that love can grow so much and root so deeply, that the sudden and unexplained loss of it feels like you’ve been gutted from the inside out, or punched in the lung (the good one). There is a sudden hole within, one that feels cold and desolate, as my mind makes peace with the realization that that same chapter will never be read again.
Almost ten years is a long time to grow to know another human. We have so many wonderful moments and memories together, as well as plenty of others that aren’t quite so wonderful. It was a friendship that truly saw me at my worst, just as I saw them at theirs. Yet there was still love in the form of quiet acceptance, something that’s hard to come by it seems. My faults in this story are apparent, as are theirs. But it never seemed to matter in the end, as the friendship always seemed to persevere and overcome. But not anymore, and that is a hard and painful realization to accept.
So why am I writing this? Quite frankly, part of it is selfish. It is the hope that, by getting it out, by taking the words that keep swirling in my mind and sending rushes of cold through that desolate void within and putting them outside of myself, I will be able to release. That by expressing my thoughts, I will be able to relinquish the white knuckle grip I have been known to hold on this bond, for the fear that it will fade away again, as it has in the past. But this time is different, for before when it would fade, it would always find a way to spark itself back to life. But now, that isn’t something that will happen. That pattern is over, the saga coming to an end. And my hope is to finally be able to simply, yet so challengingly, let go.
But why blog it? Why post it? For others who may be experiencing a similar loss, or grief, in a world that tells you it isn’t something to mourn. Refer back to the statement about sharing a bed or blood, and know that that is the reason I am sharing this. To shine a light on a different form of grief, and assure you that you are not alone in your feelings. To tell you that it’s alright to mourn the loss of a friendship or partnership, no matter what it looked like to others. And to say that, if you need space for grieving, no matter the reason, I hold that space for you, and I witness you.
Almost ten years is a long time to grow to know another human. I was only twenty three when this story started, and it’s that younger version of me that is so deeply hurt by this loss. The version of me who saw a life with this person in it, a future where we would always be connected in some way or another. While I knew that everything in life has seasons, some stronger than others, I never saw the possibility of the death of winter without the rebirth of spring. My current self is holding space for my younger self as she grieves. Time and maturity have shone a light on things that were always there, things I just didn’t see, or didn’t want to see, that tell me that the ending was inevitable. But that in no way invalidates the grief felt by someone who held hope, care and love in such a large capacity. So I will grant myself permission and give myself the space to grieve, no matter what it may look like to others. And I hope that I can encourage you to do the same. Because if you have ever felt the pain of someone hugging you and telling you they’ll never let go, only to have that ripped away, you understand the need to grieve.
While I have just written a whole blog on the subject, I’ve honestly felt at a loss for words the past couple of weeks, and Walt Whitman got me through. So to end this story, I will leave you with this:
“I am not to speak to you - I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,
I am to wait - I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.”
And that, my friends, is the importance of creating art. To help others through when the words evade them.
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