I know not how to begin this story. For I have written it countless time in my overthinking head, in my tumultuous heart, in that letter to God nine years ago. It is a story I recount to myself time and again to train my tear ducts from overflowing when someone speaks of ‘parents’, ‘mother’ and ‘father’. Now, I can reiterate the standard summary of what happened when I was 18 with a grin and assure the other party, “Don’t be!” when they exclaimed, “I am so sorry”. Of course, birthdays and Christmas can still be overwhelming with flashbacks that can present itself like a falling feather or a torrential rain. Nine years. And as I was about to bask in the fact that my wounded, resilient heart is coping well with loss, grandmother finished her earthly race and bade farewell. This time, Guilt and Regret did not deliver their fatal blows. Only fond wistfulness of chocolate sundaes, Tamu Donggongon, Carmelite masses and Sunday afternoon phone calls. Ah, the heart truly has gained strength – no crying spells, no “What ifs”. I did not grief for I do not see a need. “This is also not your first time losing a loved one,” I told myself. “You are stronger. You are older. It is no big deal. Carry on”. Until my 27th birthday; the first without her. That fact dawned upon me and I cried like I did nine years ago. I cried as I sent Thank You text messages with a smiley face to all well-wishers. I cried after taking birthday calls and a marathon of the comedy sitcom Friday Night Dinner. I spent my 27th birthday, sobbing. Grieving. In the storm of emotions, I felt utterly idiotic, weak and ungrateful. Were you not prepared, Mind? Were you not trained, Heart? How foolish of you to act in such a manner. You lived yet another year. Are you not thankful? As I allowed these thoughts to race and occupy my space for a week, I came to the realisation that, once again, I have been putting on a mask and pretending to be fine. Once again, I chose to shove things under the rug to paint a pretty picture. So, once again, I recounted the nine-year old story to myself. To remind myself of these: 1. No one will ever be prepared to lose a loved one no matter how much they have lost in life. 2. Acknowledging openly the sufferings you are going through is not foolish nor is it a sign of weakness. 3. Cry and allow yourself to grief. Coping strategies that I so often use to encourage and comfort those who mourn and yet fail to follow. What a catharsis. I considered going anonymous for this story at first but I decided against it because I needed to remind myself, I can afford to be weak and dependent. I am still loved. I am still enough. Likewise, if your life seems like a great pandemonium and you are at the brink of despair, please know that you are loved. You are enough. You are not alone. We’ll get through this. Is there anything you would like to add to the story? For those who have loved and lost.
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