Between Waves

There is a side of grief that people do not speak about enough. The ugly side. The frightening side. The side where the pain becomes so overwhelming that your mind starts searching for anything that might quieten it for five minutes. After losing Woody, I discovered grief is not just sadness. Sometimes it feels like a form of survival panic. Like your body and mind are desperately trying to escape something unbearable. And when those waves hit, they can be intense. There have been moments whilst going through past traumas where I have reached for sleeping tablets, alcohol, drugs, self harm, or anything that numbs reality for a little while. Not necessarily because I’ve truly wanted to die, but because I desperately needed relief from the constant ache of carrying impossible pain.

This is something I have struggled with silently. The thoughts can arrive suddenly. Usually late at night when the world is quiet and there are no distractions left. My mind starts racing, my chest feels tight, and everything inside me screams that I cannot tolerate this feeling for one more second. Grief can make self destruction feel strangely tempting. Not because I dont love my family. Not because I want to leave. But because losing a child creates a level of emotional pain that is difficult to explain unless you have lived it. What I have slowly learned, though, is that these feelings are waves. Intense waves. But waves still pass. I have had to learn myself in a completely different way since losing Woody. I now recognise that when those urges appear, they are usually trying to tell me something. That I am overwhelmed. That I am exhausted. That I am carrying too much pain alone. That I need comfort, grounding, or connection.

Understanding why I feel this way has helped me separate the feeling from the action. Now, when those moments come, I try not to judge myself for them. Instead, I focus on getting through the next hour safely. Sometimes that means getting on my bike late at night and riding until my head quietens down. Sometimes it means sitting in the dark and writing every thought down as fast as it enters my mind. Writing has become one of the only ways I can empty some of the chaos out of my head without hurting myself. Other times, if I know I cannot safely distract myself alone, I physically place myself around other people. I will sit with my daughter. Sit next to my partner. Go to my friends house. Message a friend. Even just existing quietly near somebody else can interrupt the spiral. I have realised that isolation is dangerous for me when grief becomes too loud and connection helps pull me back. There are still nights where the feelings scare me. There are still moments where I feel completely consumed. But I remind myself that wanting the pain to stop is not the same as wanting my life to end. And deep underneath all of this grief, I know there are reasons I stay. For my daughter. For my family. For the people who love me. And for Woody too. So I keep choosing to stay. Sometimes minute by minute. Sometimes hour by hour.

And if somebody reading this recognises themselves in these words, I hope you know this. You are not weak and yare not crazy. Its just grief and sometimes surviving grief means learning how to sit inside unbearable feelings without letting them destroy you. That is one of the hardest things I will ever have to learn and will continue to learn forever.