coming to terms
whoever said they always come back was lying, as I've had to miss you for longer than I ever knew you
Content Warning: This article contains a discussion of suicide and death. I would like to acknowledge that no two experiences are the same.
This journal entry was created a little over two months after his passing. I’ve come to express my grief through the written word slowly, however, I often find my way back to the simpler means of piecing scraps of papers together, sprawling my written words out, and letting my tears soak the pages.
Internalizing these thoughts for two months, I couldn’t find the words to pinpoint the mess of what I felt. Not that I feel I have ever found the words to express my grief, but my hands don’t swell up with the onslaught of tears each time I try to write anymore.
I had questions to ask. Strong questions that would never be answered. Regrets to part with and compliments left unsaid, I hold the same belief that the dead can read my writing as with my art. I needed him to know this was not what I wanted, even though I knew it was never about what I wanted.
This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it.
Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body (1992)
Creating this piece on New Years Eve of 2021, I sought a fresh start that would never be found; a fresh start that I am now grateful I never received. One collage wouldn’t heal my heart, no matter how many of my tears I spilled over it. No less, no one of anything will ever heal my heart and erase this grief from my mind. I wouldn’t want it to anyway.
Whether it be art, cognitive, or trauma-based, my therapy has yet to bring me peace, or rather the degree of peace I assumed I would find by now. I struggle consistently to speak of this life without wavering, without deterring into a puddle of weeps and tears. The barrier between myself and extinguishing these flames sits solidly.
I would love to look back towards how I grieved my father for inspiration and resilience here and now, however, I do not believe I have yet to truly grieve my father. The death of him caused me to recollect the death of my father; an experience I run from at my best and crumble under at worst. I walk two lines these days; wobbling between my long held tears for my father and my newly found grief for him.
I hope this grief stays with me. Because it’s all the unexpressed love that I didn’t get to tell her.
Andrew Garfield (2021)
The letters I write to him cover an amount of topics too vast for my brain to resound into a singular idea. Neurographic art creates an image that, while bringing peace, disseminates my grief into molecules too small to see. My playlist dedicated to him is a gift, however it is far from my own words. In piecing together a collage, I attempted to piece back together my understanding of what happened between us.
Finding difficulty in achieving the degree of success I always felt would be found by now, I am stuck in thought loops that remind me of my imminent loneliness. I’d rather be alone than with anyone but him, I would have done anything to help him, or the all-consuming, I am not sure this is worth it without him.
In heated moments, where my mind fights avidly against my heart, poetry offers me a space to ask the questions I vowed to never speak allowed, while collaging allows me to put those words together in a way that contextualizes how I could miss him for so much longer than I ever knew him.
For him:
I’ve been finding your face in a sea of people for months longer than I was able to hold yours in my hands. It’s become ever more apparent that whoever said they always came back had never met you.